


What you appear to be

by ViolettaMondarev



Category: Girl Genius
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-06-05 06:12:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6692758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolettaMondarev/pseuds/ViolettaMondarev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone in Paris wants Gil dead and very nearly succeeds, when Tarvek walks right in the middle of it. Now Gil is stuck being saved by Tarvek Sturmvoraus, of all people - the one person he's sworn never to trust again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If an injury has to be done to a man, it should be so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.”   
> \- Niccolò Machiavelli

Gil was fast. In fact he was _very_ fast for a human; but whoever was chasing him, they weren’t human. He wasn't quite sure what they were. One half of him looked forward to finding out. The other half was starting to feel slightly worried. He hadn't managed to fully assess their ability, yet. Clever, agile, good hunters obviously, but was it all?

They were gaining on him.

For the first time in his life, Gil missed Dupree. Wherever had she run off to? Not that she was there to babysit him – but for all the times she’d annoyed him to tears when he _very clearly_ did not need her around, why, for goodness sake, did she have to disappear now?

There were two of them that he could spot, one on his right, in the street, the other on the left, on the roofs. They were no longer catching up, but not losing ground either. He was quite aware that they were purposefully driving him into a corner. Things would not end well if he let them.

He turned right into another street, then abruptly stopped and turned to take on the first assassin. The second one on the roof would be a little slower to catch up, with any chance he…

Gil dodged the man's knife, trying to punch him, but the aggressor stayed out of his reach, quick on his feet, probably buying time for his companion to join the fun.

Suddenly Gil felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. He reached with his hand and felt a dart, tried to yank it out but couldn't.

The ground rocked slowly, everything drifting out of focus. The man with the knife grinned, raised his weapon, Gil tried to move out of reach and failed. All his muscles weighed a ton.

He'd just been poisoned. Shit, shit, _shit_. His only chance was to kill the man fast, and then…

A scream echoed behind him.

"GIL!"

A shadow moved past him, suddenly the assassin had a knife in his throat and collapsed on the pavement. Gil's body then seemed to realize it couldn't stand either, and he fell down.

Strong arms caught him. He was carried against a wall. Gil looked up and found himself nose to nose with Tarvek Sturmvoraus. Was it really Tarvek? It couldn't be.

"Gil, look at me. Talk to me. Can you talk?"

Gil tried to draw breath but his chest was hard as a wall. He fought against the paralysis, suffocating already, all his body shaking and painful. Tarvek grabbed his chin and forced the content of a vial in his mouth. Gil could barely swallow it. The liquid burned, but it freed his lungs nearly instantly, and he breathed in with relief.

"Don't move," Tarvek ordered. His hands were grabbing new vials and tools from his pockets. "Try to stay calm and breath slowly, I've got to find out what they poisoned you with before it kills you."

He started injecting drops of Gil's blood in a collection of small bottles with quiet speed. One of the bottles turned bright green and Tarvek dropped it with an expression of panic.

Oh, that couldn't be good.

The pain in Gil's muscles was now excruciating and increasing with every second. He barely noticed the sting of Tarvek's needle injecting him with - whatever it was. His vision began to cloud…

A glimmer of steal…

"Duck," he whispered with all the breath he had left.

Tarvek turned around, his back against Gil, screaming "Violetta!". Gil watched the blade rushing towards them both and tried to do something - anything - but found he couldn't raise his arms, his muscles stiff and hard and burning like molten iron. Tarvek grabbed the assassin's arm with one hand, the dagger with the other. He swiftly stabbed the man in the throat, then turned back towards Gil. His hands and chest were covered in blood, his eyes somewhere between rage, terror and Madness.

Then there was only darkness.

* * *

It was a long time before Gil could feel anything else than pain. Sometimes there were voices, but he couldn't make out the words. Sometimes he was just sinking inside himself, lost in a dream made of nothing but emptiness. Time seemed both short and endless.

* * *

When Gil finally opened his eyes, all he could see was the white ceiling. He tried to turn his head, but his entire body ached and none of his muscles responded. Just to keep breathing was almost too much effort. 

There was a low, regular beep coming from a machine next to him. Was he in a hospital? Who brought him there? The last person he'd seen was…

"Hello."

Tarvek Sturmvoraus moved into his field of vision. To have Tarvek, of all people, closing on him when he was this powerless sent all sorts of alarms ringing loudly into Gil's head. The low beep sound accelerated. Tarvek's eyes drifted in its direction, then he looked back at Gil with a dry smile.

"Calm down, you moron. If I wanted you to die, all I had to do was stand back and watch, you know. You're safe here, for now."

Right, Gil thought. There were probably worse situations than to be alone with Tarvek while completely helpless and in agonizing pain. Although none of them came to mind at this very moment. He tried to ask what was going on, but all he could utter was an inarticulate moan. Tarvek's smile faded into a more serious expression.

"Don't try to talk for now. We'll get to it. Just keep breathing."

He raised a torch lamp and warned:

"I'm going to check your pupils."

He sat at Gil's side and opened his eye with a hand while directing the light in it. It blinded Gil, who groaned in protest. Tarvek ignored him.

"I walked in on three assassins while they were trying to kill you," he explained while examining his pupils. "My bodyguard was with me and she took care of them, but one of them poisoned you before he died. You were injected with a massive dose of trycline."

Trycline. Gil browsed his memory. He knew that one, it was pretty nasty. Also horrendously painful. Yeah, that'd fit the symptoms nicely.

"I'm going to help you sit," Tarvek told him. "It will hurt less if you relax a bit."

Relax, Gil told himself. Yeah. Right. Was there anything in this situation that could be defined as even remotely relaxing? Tarvek's arm slid under his shoulders and his lower back, then lifted him upwards. Gil's muscles screamed in protest, and he only barely managed not to do the same. He was let down slowly against a big cushion.

"Breathe," Tarvek reminded him.

Ah, yes, breathing. Best not to forget the breathing. Gil didn’t remember it being this much hard work. Once he'd caught his breath back, he sarted looking around. He wasn't in a hospital, definitely not. The furniture was much too expensive, and the medical equipment he was attached to had been built in a hurry out of several clanks, a coffee machine and possibly some sort of musical instrument. This was someone's bedroom. This someone had a taste for big, finely crafted mirrors, fancy clothes, and late 17th century's works of art.

Tarvek returned into his field of vision, and Gil cast him a questioning glance. What was he doing here? He tried to talk again and failed miserably.

"I did tell you not to do that," Tarvek retorted. "You just woke up from coma, I removed your tracheal tube less than an hour ago and your body is still eliminating the remaining toxins from the trycline poisoning. Most of your muscles are not going to be operational for a while."

Slender fingers slid under Gil's hand.

"Try to squeeze my hand."

Gil tried to ignore the pain and move his fingers. He barely managed to control his shaking hand, and the strain of the effort left him drained, but Tarvek gave him a satisfied nod.

Gil's confused mind attempted to make sense of the medical data. Coma. Artificial respiration. That was an intensive care situation, oxygen supply potentially compromised for an unknown amount of time. Unresponsive muscles. Checking pupils and response to simple commands such as moving fingers. Looking for symptoms of brain injury. Were only his muscles dysfunctional, or was his central nervous system affected? Could he have brain injury? Did he? How would he know? 

His heart rate accelerated again; he breathed in, concentrating to slow it down. Panicking now was not going to change a thing about his situation, useless emotion that kept him out of focus, but still he could not get rid of it.

Tarvek's hand closed briefly on his.

"You'll be fine," he told him quietly. "Your system has endured a massive shock, but you're recovering steadily. Give it some time." 

Tarvek. _Tarvek_ was trying to reassure him. This man full of scorn and sarcasm, enemy and rival - god, what kind of state was he in to elicit pity from _him_? And Tarvek lied. Doctors lied, all the time, to calm patients and improve healing chances. The feeling of panic increased, Gil's breathing speeding up out of control, his chest aching. He couldn't get as much air in as his body wanted him to, and that too fed the fear inside his mind, blacking out…

"Gil!" A hand on his forehead, holding him down. He hadn't even realized he was trying to stand up.

"Slow down! Breathe slowly."

Gil's body, somehow, seemed inclined to obey Tarvek's voice. It stopped its hyperventilation spiral, steadying back into relative calm. The fact that Tarvek now seemed to have more control over Gil than Gil had over himself was disturbing, but by then he was feeling too exhausted to worry about it. For a long time (or was it a few minutes?) he listened to Tarvek's voice, talking, endlessly talking, and Gil did not bother to listen to the actual words, he just allowed the sound to lull him back into sleep little by little.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Every one sees what you appear to be, few really know what you are.”  
> \- Niccolò Machiavelli

When Gil woke up for the second time, he was alone in the room. There were voices in the distance. He could hear Tarvek and a woman he didn’t identify. He tried to move a little and nearly cried out in pain, but found his muscles more responsive than the last time. He could turn his head and lift his arms somewhat, although sitting up on his own was still out of the question. Well, the important fact here was that he was getting better, he thought with relief. Better meant he was healing. Permanent damage to the nervous system still was a possibility, but he wouldn't be crippled for life, probably. He looked in the direction of the voices. They came through an open door, apparently leading to the kitchen.

"Why am I cooking again?" Tarvek was whining. "Aren't you supposed to serve me?"

"Hey, I'm a Smoke Knight, not a maid," the woman answered sharply. "And you're the only one of us who can make decent pancakes."

"It's simple enough" Tarvek complained. "Even you should be able to get it right."

"Yeah, yeah, you're the genius and I'm the one who burns everything down. Get to work, Your Princely Highness. In case you didn't notice, I've been working all night and I'm _starving_."

"Fine!” Tarvek said with an exaggerated sigh. “Pancakes it is. Did you at least find something interesting, or do I just keep you for your lovely companionship?"

"Oh, I tracked them down all right, it wasn’t even hard. They're called the Koyla brothers. Well, they weren't really brothers, strictly speaking. Abandoned constructs, all three of them."

"I noticed the stitches. Tell me something I don't already know," Tarvek replied irritably.

"You want me to report, I report, now shut up. So, these guys have been on the run from the Empire ever since the Baron conquered their Spark. They've been freelancing as assassins everywhere that's outside Wulfenbach territory. They had quite the reputation. Built to hunt down humans, apparently."

"Mm. I only had a quick glance, but the work on the hands did remind me of Lord Terence's work. He didn't have the sanest hobbies. I imagine their services were expensive?"

"In the top ten of the price list, in these parts."

They were obviously talking about the people who had tried to kill Gil. Well, he'd only really seen two of them… the third one must have been the one who had poisoned him. Waiting in ambush, somewhere in the darkness. Gil gritted his teeth irritably, he’d really been too easy a prey.

"So who hired them, any hint?" Tarvek asked again.

The scent of fresh pancakes was slowly filling the air, and Gil was beginning to find that highly distracting. For once, his stomach growled furiously (when was the last time he'd eaten?). On top of that, the thought of Sturmvoraus making pancakes was so out of place that a part of him wondered if he was having some weird dream. He forced himself to focus on the conversation.

"Oh, sure,” the woman was saying. “Lots of hints, in fact. And they all point to the Andreinev House."

There was a silence, only disturbed by the prickling of warm butter in the frying pan.

"Tarvek?" the woman asked.

No one answered. The smell of pancakes was acquiring a distinct burnt note.

"Tarvek!"

She must have hit him, because Tarvek let out a moan of pain.

"Pancakes!" she insisted.

"Yes, yes," Tarvek answered, somewhat absent-mindedly. "Pancakes. Right."

"What is it?" she asked again.

"I don't know. The Andreinev are a minor house. They're not that rich. It's not unthinkable that they would manage to pay for assassins like those Koyla brothers if they _really_ wanted to, but… it would make a pretty horrendous hole in their finances."

"Guess they wanted him dead really badly, then."

"Mm, I suppose they did, but…"

"But what?"

"What if something else is going on?"

"What "something"?" the woman asked, annoyed.

"I don't know. I need to think."

"Tarvek, I'm _hungry_!"

"Yes, well, stop complaining and set the table, then!"

"What exactly are we doing here, anyway?" the woman asked, her words punctuated by the sound of plates being moved around.

"What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, "What do I mean", you moron?" the woman snapped. "Why do you care who's trying to kill this guy? None of this is our business! And there is something else we should be doing right now, have you somehow forgotten?"

"I wish I could."

"Your father…"

"My father will bloody wait!" Tarvek shouted.

Silence invaded the flat. It was a few seconds before the woman interrupted it again.

"I don't know what game you're playing this time, but…"

" _That_ is none of your concern. I give the orders, you follow them."

"I really hate you," the woman growled.

"I know," Tarvek replied, unconcerned. "Eat your pancakes."

There was a long silence as they ate without exchanging another word. Then Gil heard steps coming in his direction and he quickly settled back on his cushion, eyes closed. He didn't want Tarvek to know he had heard that conversation. The steps stopped close to him, and he felt fingers slide on his wrist to take his pulse. That was a little weird, because Gil was pretty sure there were sensors in place to do just that, the low bip synchronized with his heartbeat proved it. Tarvek must have been distracted. Even without sensors, his fingers stayed on Gil's pulse quite a bit longer than was necessary.

After a while, the hand abandoned his wrist to pull down the blanket and started a standard medical examination. Gil followed the moves on his own internal checklist, trying to assess his own state. Regularity of breathing, blood pressure, lymph nodes… Once finished, Tarvek's hands covered him back and Gil heard a chair being pulled, someone sitting on it.

"Ludivina Andreinev…" Tarvek muttered. "What is this little fool playing at? And you…” Gil kept himself from wincing as a fist poked lightly on his head. “…what kind of mess have you gotten yourself into this time, you idiot?"

Yes, indeed, Gil thought to himself. What kind of mess was this? He was damned if he knew. Ludivina was a student, too. Nice, a little naive, not extremely clever, small circle of friends. She was from a minor house, as Tarvek had pointed out. Her only family was a short-sighted older aunt who reigned on their small city state without causing any trouble. Ludivina didn't have any interest for politics and had never payed much attention to Gil. Had she truly sent those assassins? Why? What did she have to win from his death?

Did she know who Gil truly was?

Impossible.

Even if she _did_ know, she had everything to lose and nothing to earn by getting him killed. Ludivina's city was small and virtually defenseless. The aunt was a practical old lady who was actually rather grateful to have found a protector who didn't do anything more unreasonable than raise taxes and demand peace. Maybe Ludivina herself though differently? Even so, the house of Andreinev could never dream to stand up to the Baron.

Well… not alone, anyway.

Speaking of which, what was Tarvek Sturmvoraus' game?

An ancient worry welled up inside Gil's stomach. Tarvek digging information about him was one thing Gil certainly didn't want, no matter what his reasons were. Gil had gone to some pain to make sure he would be dismissed and underestimated by everyone of importance, _especially_ Sturmvoraus. A good part of his parisian shenanigans were designed to convince Tarvek that Gil was a worthless lowlife without ambition. But now that people were trying to kill him, Tarvek had cause to be interested in him again, and that - in the long run, it was potentially as deadly as a trycline overdose. If he found out…

Tarvek was sharp. It wouldn't take much for him to put two and two together.

Gil's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a second person entering the room.

"I'm going to bed," said the woman's voice.

Tarvek barely replied with a noncommittal "Hm."

"You should sleep too, you know. You look like a lab accident waiting to happen."

"I still need to monitor this."

"If you'd _just_ let me deliver him to the hospital…" she sounded very annoyed, like she was repeating a rehashed argument.

"Too dangerous," Tarvek replied equally. "Not as long as I don't know who did this, or why."

"But the hospital is safe," the woman insisted. "They have security there, I checked. The Master of Paris would never…" she interrupted herself. Then, after a silence:

"What are you afraid of, really?"

"Everything," Tarvek replied. He sounded… absent. "Ludivina Andreinev, that's… you know, when someone tells you a story, and you put all the pieces together and you find that yes, it does make sense. Things could have happened this way. But some details aren't quite fitting… or just missing. And part of you knows they’re missing because none of this is real. But it's a good story. It’s so good you _want_ to believe it. Whoever's behind this is good at stories."

A pause, and a sigh.

"I don't know. It's just a feeling. I need more information. It could be anything. What if someone truly dangerous is pulling the strings of this one? Like the Master. Or the Baron."

"Is that likely?" the woman said, doubtful.

"I hope not. I can't rule anything out. Need more time, and I can't even leave him for an hour, because if something goes wrong here..." he paused. "Anyway. Whatever this is about, I'll find out. But anyone determined enough to pay for people like those Koyla brothers are not going let a few hospital guards stop them. If we were going to let him die, we should have spared ourselves the effort and done that earlier, don't you think?"

The woman sighed heavily.

"Well, I hope you're keeping tracks of your _own_ plots in the mean time, because…"

"Go to bed, Violetta."

"Sure, fine, have it your way."

She left again while muttering something about buttheaded princelings, and Gil had to fight back a smile.

Tarvek, at least, seemed to be earnestly saving his life, despite his usual claims that Gil’s existence was worthless. That was... unexpected, but nice. Their mutual dislike wasn't intent enough for Tarvek to actively want him dead, but… If someone had asked Gil a week before whether Sturmvoraus would lift a finger in the event of Gil getting knifed under his nose, well. Let's just say, he wouldn't have bet a lot of money on that one.

Having Tarvek on his side was a strange thought. Not an entirely reassuring one. Gil had long accepted that a Sturmvoraus only ever truly was on their own side, and part of him was already waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like he was contracting a huge debt to someone who would definitely make him pay all the interests, to the last cent. And… something was going on in here. What was it that Tarvek was ‘supposed to be doing’? What was it that his father was waiting for? Should Gil be worrying about that right now, considering he didn’t even have the strength to lift his head from the damn pillow?

Tarvek’s hand drifted to his pulse again, and Gil wondered what exactly he was thinking and not saying, what could make him so utterly distracted. He slowly fell into sleep again, in uneasy dreams haunted by Tarvek, a dagger in his hand, red hair dripping in blood, calling his name.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...to a Prince who wants to do great things, it is necessary to learn to deceive."  
> \- Niccolò Machiavelli

When Gil opened his eyes again, the pain had become more bearable and his body felt somewhat more functional. Tarvek was there this time, his eyes on the dials of the machines Gil was hooked up to. He turned around.

"Oh, back among us," he said, raising an eyebrow. "I'm not sure how fuzzy your memory might be, so before you start - hm - _worrying_ again: I'm not here to kill you. You're not going to die. You're quite fine, in fact, considering the circumstances."

Tarvek's was making it very obvious that he had added "worrying" after striking "having a full-blown panic attack", and Gil gritted his teeth in embarrassment.

"What happened?" he managed to say, his voice raw and his throat painful.

"You remember being attacked?"

"Yes." His mouth was incredibly dry.

Tarvek sat on a chair next to the bed and helped Gil up, sliding a big cushion behind his back. He offered a glass of water that Gil tried to grab, but although he could lift his arm this time, his hand was shaking so badly that holding the glass was a hopeless prospect. Tarvek pulled his hand away with a quiet sigh, approaching the glass from Gil's lips instead. Gil bit his lips, unwilling to submit to this. To be this incapacitated…

"Look," Tarvek sighed, "I don't enjoy this anymore than you do, but you really need to drink something. You've been on feeding solutions for _days_ now. Theoretically, I could keep you on those until you regain fine motor control, but your stomach won't like it and it will delay your recovery."

That was a reasonable argument, damn the bastard. Gil couldn't afford to behave like a child, not in this situation.

_Red fire_ , he hated it.

He nodded and let Tarvek help him to drink. The water tasted delicious.

"They didn't manage to stab you, but you were poisoned," Tarvek went on, carefully tipping the glass. Gil didn't stop drinking until it was empty. He felt like he hadn't seen water in a week.

"Yeah. Trycline, you said."

A dart to the shoulder. Unforgivably sloppy of him. Tarvek confirmed with a nod.

"You remember that. Good. Yes. In fact, from my calculations, you were injected with about three times the lethal dose for someone your weight. To be honest, I have no idea how you're still alive. Even with immediate intervention, it should have been impossible to recover from that. I guess your innate ability to come out of any mess looking like the cover hero of a penny dreadful has not let you down yet."

Gil wasn't feeling like much of a novel hero for the moment, but decided to let the sarcasm slide, because Tarvek was right. If it wasn't for his father's hobby of building up resistance against all sorts of poisons, he'd probably be a small puddle in the gutter right now. Trycline toxins were bad. They started by incapacitating the nervous system, paralyzing all the muscles, which usually killed either by heart failure or suffocation whatever came first. Meanwhile the toxins went on to destroy the cells of every internal organ until your insides were basically a pile of mush. If medical reports were accurate, the resulting mess was so hard to sort out that any attempts at revivification would, at best, produce a brainless one-footed cyclop, or something. Gil had a quick look at himself, and wondered if retroactive panicking was still an option.

"How did you eliminate the toxins from my system?"

"Mostly by injecting you with torasacine. Hungry?"

Gil nodded a bit too fast, it made his muscle ache but he didn't even care. He had learned in class that being fed intravenously didn't prevent the feeling of hunger. He'd never had the misfortune of experimenting it himself before. He was downright starving.

Tarvek walked to the kitchen and came back with a bowl of soup. Gil looked at it with disgust. It was brown and unappetizing. Why did he have to put up with soup when other people got to eat pancakes? He really wanted pancakes.

"If you're thinking of complaining about the food," Tarvek said coolly, "I strongly advise you reconsider. I told you, your stomach has been empty for days."

Gil only barely suppressed a groan of frustration. Why did the jerk get to torture him _and_ be right at the same time? It was so unfair. Well, soup it was, then. If Gil tried to eat anything heavier than that, he'd likely be throwing it all up in ten minutes.

"I'm not complaining," he snapped at Tarvek.

For a second, Tarvek's mouth curved in an amused smile.

"Alright, whining."

He sat back next to Gil's bed and offered a spoon. Oh, great. Of course, Gil had to be fed like an infant. This living and breathing thing, why was it so great again?

By the way, had anyone ever invented a memory erasing machine? Because Gil was definitely getting started on the schematics the minute he could hold a pencil again. He opened his mouth and swallowed the soup along with his pride.

"Torasacine does react with trycline, but it's a poison too," he commented between two spoons, to break the awkwardness.

"Yeah, the dosage was very tricky. I had to balance it so the two chemicals would eliminate each other without killing you. It was touch and go for a while, but… well, you're out of danger now."

Wow, that must have been an interesting few days, Gil thought, swallowing another spoon. Not that using torasacine wasn't a good idea, not that many ways to clean up trycline toxins unless you had some really advanced blood filters close by, but previous attempts to use this in cures had been - huh, he couldn't remember the survival rates right now, somewhere below 5 %?

Gil was never again going to complain about the Baron's quirk to slip small poison doses in his morning coffee.

Anyway. Something like that would require uninterrupted monitoring and adjustments. That explained why Tarvek looked so - well - unprincely. Gil had never seen Sturmvoraus looking anything less than pristine (unless he had just been manhandled by a passing monster who hadn't learned proper etiquette, that is). His attention to his looks was the subject of some teasing among the students. He was the kind of fop who wouldn't so much as ease up his tie even in the worst heat, for fear of appearing disheveled. _And_ he would frown in open disapproval at anyone who dared to open a button of their shirt (Gil of course never missed an opportunity to do it, sometimes even purposefully finding excuses to walk around completely shirtless, just for the sheer joy of watching Tarvek point at him and scream in outrage).

Yet here he was, with a beard of several days, a crumpled shirt and rolled up sleeves.

Several days… oh.

"How long was I unconscious?"

"Two days and three nights."

Gil stared at him. Two days and three nights. Tarvek would have needed to correct any fluctuations immediately. And there would have been fluctuations, plenty of them, probably - Gil stopped himself from trying to calculate the numbers, it really wasn't a good time for a fugue state - right, focus. Anyway. It was unlikely that Tarvek had slept at all in that time, and that was…

"Have you been doing this _on your own_ for this long?" his eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Oh, _excuse me_ , should I have called one of your nightclub dancers to help?"

Gil decided he wasn't going to let sarcasm distract him.

" _Why?_ " he repeated.

"Because I had no choice!" Tarvek snapped. "You were dying, you were almost already dead, do you have any idea…" he paused, breathed out. "Someone wants you reduced to a melting flake on the pavement, Holzfäller. Once they realize they failed, do you think they'll leave it at that? I still don't know who they are. I don't know what I'm messing with, or who I can trust. The best way to keep us all alive is to make sure no one knows where you are."

It was - as always - a perfectly logical argument. But Tarvek was very good at these sort of games and he could plot intrigues like other people breathed. Gil wasn't about to buy any explanation at face value. Especially not simple and obvious ones.

"What were you doing in that street anyway?" he asked again.

Tarvek's face remained a perfect example of schooled blankness, but his tone became several degrees colder.

"I was walking home in the hope of having a glass of sherry and going to bed - none of which happened since, by the way. With your usual talent for making my life impossible, you managed to lead your little friends two streets away from my apartment. I _live_ here."

He stood up and opened the light curtain so that Gil could watch through the window. Oh. Well. This did look like the area where he'd tried to lose his assassins. That was the southern part of the 13th arrondissement, there were some nice bars a little further down. Not a poor district at all, but also really not the kind of area where he would have expected someone as posh as Tarvek.

"I always assumed you lived in that huge mansion your family owns."

Tarvek snorted.

"That would be my grandfather's home. I do have a room there, but for my own sanity, I stay away from the place whenever possible."

Gil kept staring through the window, trying to put his thoughts in the right order and not quite succeeding. What did all of that mean about Sturmvoraus' intentions? He didn't want Gil dead, that much was obvious. What else could he want? Was it possible that this was a fake assassination attempt, purely meant to put Gil under Tarvek's control for a while, for whatever reason...? No, that too could be ruled out. What Tarvek had said about the dosage of the poison was true: it was meant to kill without fail. Gil owed his life not only to Tarvek's timely arrival, but also to the resistance his body had built against trycline, something no one but him and his father knew about. A fake assassination attempt, one meant to fail and merely incapacitate him, would have been a tiny bit less deadly.

Could it truly be a coincidence, that he'd landed right in Tarvek's lap? But even if it was nothing more, it didn't mean Tarvek wouldn't try to take advantage of the opportunity.

This was giving him a headache. It didn't make sense, he couldn't wrap his head around it. Sturmvoraus helping him, no identified ulterior motives; Ludivina, that girl too naïve for words, hiring assassins to kill him - what did it mean, was it connected, why were people suddenly acting so out of character, was Gil really that bad at understanding what was going on around him? Was there any actual solid ground he could put his foot on?

He looked up at Tarvek, who was staring back at him.

"Holzfäller, while it _is_ sound to suspect me given our common history, I'm hardly the one you should be most worried about. Someone out there is very determined about ending your life, you can't afford to be distracted."

He sat back on his chair, arms crossed.

"Will the Baron still protect you?"

Gil smiled. Well, yes, alright. _That_ was solid ground. That was the one thing he didn't need to worry about.

"Yes."

"You are absolutely certain of that fact?" Tarvek insisted.

"I'm sure," Gil sighed. Not that his father couldn't decide to scrap him for parts one day, but the stakes would have to be pretty high. Gil had already cost him a lot of time and efforts.

"Good," Tarvek said with apparent relief. "You should contact him as soon as possible."

"What? No!" Gil protested.

"Why not?" Tarvek frowned.

Gil bit his lips. What could he answer? If his father learned of an assassination attempt against him, he would recall him back immediately. Then he would probably announce Gil’s existence to the world and his entire life would change forever. He would never be Gil Holzfäller again, he would never be free to casually walk down the streets again. The times for foolish fun and ridiculous adventures would be over and he would become Gilgamesh Wulfenbach, heir to the despotic ruler of Europe.

That time would come sooner or later, of course. But it didn't have to come _now_.

"He'll just call me back to Castle Wulfenbach," he heard himself say.

"Good!" Tarvek retorted. "You'll be a lot harder to kill there, and in the mean time the Baron's people can…"

"I don't want to leave Paris!" Gil snapped.

Tarvek stared at him in disbelief.

"Have you been listening to me? Whoever is trying to kill you, they are not fooling around! They didn't settle for a knife through the chest, no, they chose insanely high doses of _trycline poisoning_. Someone wants you destroyed in a burning-down-to-the-ashes kind of way. You _need_ protection!"

"I can deal with this," Gil replied stubbornly.

"You can't even hold a bloody spoon!" Tarvek waved at the soup bowl.

Gil scowled at the offending dish. Damn it, the irritating fop was right. If he didn't want any information going back to his father, that meant he couldn't even ask Bang for help. He'd have to do this alone – without her noticing – and it sure wouldn't be a piece of cake. But…

He’d been given three years of freedom. He'd barely been here ten months!

"I'll be fine once I recover,” he mumbled.

Yeah, that didn’t sound very convincing.

"You can't do this alone, Holzfäller, it's suicide. Believe me, I'm not the mother-coddling type. But this isn't your usual kind of mess. This isn't happy-merry dueling with some random whacked out spark."

"It's more _your_ kind of mess, isn't it?" Gil snorted.

"Yes." Tarvek wasn't smiling. "Yes, it is. People have been trying to kill me since I was a toddler, I do know what I'm talking about. What is so important in Paris that you'll risk your life this stupidly, anyway? The nightclubs? Your cohorts of barely dressed girlfriends? If you were in love, at least I'd understand what kind of idiocy I'm dealing with. But the way you collect them, I'd be surprised if you even manage to remember their names…"

"Always so jealous, Sturmvoraus," Gil commented, his voice dripping acid.

"Of a half-dead lackwit who thinks quantity makes up for quality?" Tarvek retorted, poking him on the head. "Hardly. And I take note that you're not answering my question."

Gil sighed. He was exhausted and in a lot of pain, not at all in the mood to sustain this kind of conversation with Tarvek.

"There is nothing important in Paris, I just… I don't want to go back yet," he finished lamely. He was quite aware that he sounded like a child begging to stay longer at the swimming pool.

He looked up, expecting more arguments or additional bursts of sarcasm, but instead Tarvek was giving him a strange, distant look.

"Fine," he said finally.

Gil was speechless for a few seconds.

"Fine?" he repeated, incredulous.

Tarvek didn't meet his eyes, instead moving to the equipment next to Gil's bed and checking the dials.

"You need to rest," he commented. "We can deal with this later." He adjusted some of the parameters on his machines. "Would you prefer Wagner, Schopenhauer or Bach? I also have some pieces of Evanovitch, he's quite young but very promising…"

Gil stared at him, a little lost.

"Sorry, what?"

"I'm asking for your choice of music," Tarvek said, turning back. "You're stuck in bed. If your mind isn't busy, we both know you'll end up doing something stupid instead of recovering."

That comment called back memories. Old, distant memories of a seven years old Gil attempting to dismantle a toy clank while sick and feverish. It had almost exploded in his hands when he'd accidently short circuited the motor. It was Tarvek who had lectured him back into bed, and then cleaned up the mess so Von Pinn wouldn't find out.

Gil pushed back the nostalgia into the deep, deep hole where he piled up unwanted feelings. Tarvek looked away.

"Evanovitch," Gil said, "please."

The ghost of a smile floated on Tarvek's lips for an instant, and Gil knew he had guessed at his choice, guessed that Gil would prefer the young genius to the old masters.

It should have been worrying, that he would know him this well still, but it wasn't, it just felt… painful. Tarvek was the first and last person Gil had trusted in his life. He was a naive child then, he thought all mean people looked mean, and all the smiling ones were friendly. Tarvek Sturmvoraus knew how to do the smiling, oh yes, and there weren't that many people back then who bothered to be nice to Gil. He'd sure been an easy job for the princeling.

He had never again been an easy job, for anyone. On the surface, Gil still appeared spontaneous and frank, but he could no longer count the lies he had piled up and hid behind. His clothes were a lie, his demeanor was a lie, almost everything he did was a lie, every glance and every gesture and every word calculated to give off the wrong impression. He pretended not to pay attention when he was interested and pretended to listen when he was distracted. Sometimes he lied about the most pointless things, like the wine he preferred or a color he disliked, more by force of habit than conscious thought, because hiding was clearly better than being exposed. There was not one person to whom Gil would show himself, not anymore, not even those elected few who did know his lineage, because he had already trusted once and once was enough.

With the years, he had added layers to the pretence. To gain other people's trust, he let them believe that they were getting closer, by giving them more lies – different ones, deeper and consistent, so it would feel like intimacy – an edited version of himself. Shedding one mask to let them think they knew the _real_ Gil, but handing them another mask instead. One for the people on the street, another for his student friends, one more for his teachers… Gil even had a layer solely for his father's benefit.

But of all the people around him, the most important to deceive was Tarvek. Not just because he was dangerous. Because Tarvek had used him, fooled him, driven him by the nose while Gil stupidly thought he had a friend. And Gil could not feel happy no matter how many times he'd made the blue-blooded dandy look like an idiot.

He wanted, very badly, to beat him at his own game.

He had partly succeeded. Sturmvoraus seemed genuinely convinced that Gil was a lowlife not worth his time. But on some level, Tarvek could still read him, more easily at least than most people managed. Not just because he was very good at reading people, also because he had seen Gil before he knew how to wear a mask, known him in a way no one else ever had. That past closeness - that past _weakness_ \- was still an open wound.

The worst of it was, deep inside, some part of Gil wished he had never lost it.

Tarvek started a device - probably a creation of his own - and the first notes of Evanovitch's fugue for piano invaded the room. Then he left Gil alone with the music and his confused thoughts.

* * *

The music helped. A bit. But Gil was still very bored. You could only count the stones in the ceiling so many times before you started wanting to pull out your own hair. He tried to move his arms and legs as much as possible, stretching his muscles as far as the pain allowed him, desperate to get his body back. Tarvek was never far but always silent, checking papers or jolting down notes, and Gil was jealous that he had something more than piano to fill his mind.

"You like Evanovitch too," he observed while Tarvek was rereading a protocol of his dials. "You have every piece of note he's ever written."

"He has caught my attention," Tarvek admitted. "He tends to bend the rules of classical music, but he's so elegant about it that one barely notices."

"I can see why it appeals to you."

Gil had intended it as a sarcasm, but somehow it didn't come out that way, and entirely failed to annoy Tarvek. Did Gil really want to annoy him anyway? He wasn't even sure, although at least it would be entertaining.

Well. Perhaps he could just give normal conversation a try. It wasn't like he had a huge number of options.

"Did you make that music box?" he asked.

Tarvek nodded.

"I wanted a better sound."

"You made several output devices and optimized them so you could reproduce the sound of an actual concert room, at least when listening from…"

Gil listened closely to the different instruments, allowing himself to drift into a light fugue. He calculated a few wavelengths, examined the room.

"…from the sofa," he concluded. "Interesting."

Tarvek raised an eyebrow at him.

"Want to check that deduction?"

"I would," Gil sighed, "but I doubt I can walk."

"I know you can't," Tarvek said, waving his comment away. "But it would be good for you to try and move a bit. I can help you cross a few meters. I have to unhook you from the torasacine injector anyway, your toxin levels have dropped well within the normal range, now."

Under normal cicrumstances, the perspective of being half carried by Tarvek across the room would be hurting Gil's pride, but that had died earlier that day, anyway. And at least he'd be doing something else than staring at the ceiling. Oh, well.

"Let's try for the sofa, then."

Tarvek unhooked Gil from the medical equipment and helped him to sit on the bed. Gil was still a little dizzy, and he took a minute to breathe. He looked at the five meters that separated him from the sofa, wondering when it had become such an incredibly impossible distance to cover. He really hoped he would be recovering soon, because he didn't think he could put up with that state of helplessness for much longer.

Tarvek put his arm across his shoulder and grabbed him at the waist to pull him up. Gil felt completely crushed by his own weight, unable to coordinate.

"Don't make me do all the work, Holzfäller," Tarvek needled him. "I'm not going to drag you. Make steps."

"I can't," Gil hissed.

Bloody hell, he was already out of strength just trying to stand, not to mention in quite a lot of pain.

"I've got all day," Tarvek said, merciless.

"I hate you," Gil threw back at him.

"Yeah, I've heard that before." Gil didn't bother to look at Tarvek, he knew the smug bastard was smiling. Well, if Sturmvoraus had decided to torture him, there wasn't much he could do about it. He tried to put as much weight as he could on Tarvek and raised his foot. One messy step after the other, he made his slow, excruciating way to the sofa.

A few minute later he was sitting on it, letting himself sink in the cushions with a moan of relief. He was dimly aware of Tarvek checking his pulse again.

"'m fine," he muttered.

"Clearly," Tarvek replied, amused. "Will you be jogging home, then?"

"I don't need to hear sarcasm from someone who can't align wavelengths," Gil replied, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "The harp is out of sync."

"Well spotted, for someone who can barely find his own feet."

"My ears at least work perfectly well, thank you very much. Should I recalibrate your music box for you, or will you manage on your own?"

"I will gladly hand you a screwdriver and watch you try."

Gil couldn't help but chuckle at the mental image of himself trying to use tools in his current state.

"Mm, maybe later."

"I'll make something to eat," Tarvek told him. "Your stomach should be up to solids now. Try to catch your breath until I get back."

Gil looked up at him, frowning.

"You're going to cook? You?"

That had bothered him ever since the pancake scene that he was pretending he never heard. He was glad he finally had the opportunity to display the full length of his incredulity. Tarvek using a pan. Tarvek with a whisk. Tarvek wearing an apron. Probably a silk tailored apron imported directly from Prague, or something…

Tarvek stared back as if he'd just been insulted.

"It's a matter of simple chemistry and taste."

"But… Yeah, okay, but why would you even bother to go near a kitchen? I mean, aren't you supposed to have an army of maids to make you dinner?"

Tarvek shrugged.

"I do in Sturmhalten, yes. But here, all I've got is Violetta, and she's a walking disaster with a pan. She's trained to poison people, and she seems eager to use that competency even when all she has to work with are a couple of eggs and salt."

Gil snorted at him.

"Don't tell me you couldn't afford a maid if you wanted one."

"It would be inconvenient to have too many people walking around here. Besides, cooking really isn't that hard, no matter what my useless bodyguard claims."

"You enjoy it," Gil said, a little surprised at his own conclusion.

For a second there, Tarvek looked slightly out of balance, like Gil had pulled away the plank he was planning to stand on and he wasn't quite sure where to put his foot down. The uncertainty disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived, barely noticeable before his face was blank again.

"I really don't. It's just the least inconvenient way…"

"You enjoy it," Gil repeated.

"Don't be ridiculous."

Gil smirked at him.

"What's wrong, is a hobby like that below you, Your Highness? Will your father disinherit you if he finds out you secretly have fun making your own omelet?"

He was quite happy with himself when Tarvek's lips tightened, and he left the room with an indignant huff.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There is no avoiding war; it can only be postponed to the advantage of others."  
> \- Niccolò Machiavelli

Tarvek was cutting vegetables on automatic mode, barely paying attention to what he was doing.

Damn Gilgamesh Holzfäller.

The cooking thing wasn't an important secret, just something Tarvek didn't particularly want as part of his public image. But fooling people about these sort of things was something he relied on to stay alive. He was good at it. Yet Gil had seen through him in an instant. And yes, Tarvek hadn't slept in days and wasn't at the top of his game right now, but Gil was loaded with neurotoxins, too exhausted to even stand. He'd _still_ picked this up in passing, without even trying, just like his ear had isolated the harp's wavelength.

That was disturbing on several levels.

Tarvek added the onions into the pan. Sometimes he could cook and forget about everything else, make it simple and easy, balancing tastes inside a plate and making it just right, without anyone around to ruin it (you didn't get to eat Tarvek's cooking if you were the kind of person who added salt _without even tasting the meal_ , Violetta had learned that soon enough). If only the rest of the world was like that. If it would just let itself be cooked to perfection instead of crumbling away at the worst possible time...

Tarvek needed to put some order in his thoughts. Preferably without falling asleep on the stove. Yeah. About that.

He looked at his watch. About twelve hours since the last dose. He took the vial from his pocket and stared at it.

Gil was stable, now. And Tarvek needed some actual sleep. He wasn't ignorant enough to believe that a stimulant could replace rest. He knew how the chemicals worked, they just tricked the body into believing it could burn resources it didn't have. (In slightly stronger doses, it was an insidious poison). But...

Violetta was asleep. Gil in his apartment, without supervision – what if he did something stupid? Found out some of Tarvek's more dangerous secrets? Got himself killed?

Think now. Rest later.

Tarvek swallowed the contents. He went back to his pan, and for a while, focused himself solely on the task. Everything cut to the exact right size, temperature adjusted neatly, spices dosed carefully. The stimulant started to kick in. His mind cleared, his body stopped aching. His heart rate was a tad too fast, but that would be fine for now.

So. What to do with Gilgamesh Holzfäller.

Violetta was right. He shouldn't get involved. Just send him home as soon as you can. Let him take care of his own mess. Tarvek had his own problems, currently waiting for him in the top drawer of his desk.

His mind went back to cooking, lost into the bright yellow and deep green of the bell peppers. He didn't want to think about that, much less deal with it. And, truth be told, it could wait. A week or two wouldn't make a difference. Nothing would make a difference anymore.

And if Tarvek let Gil try to manage this situation on his own, he was definitely going to die.

(Why was he so convinced of that? Gil had friends. Allies. If he was clever enough to ask for help, then...)

(Hah. No. Not a chance.)

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Why did he even want to keep him alive so badly? Gil belonged to the Baron. Klaus Wulfenbach didn't give people protection out of the goodness of his heart, he did it so he could use them later. Tarvek had always suspected that the Baron had some kind of plan regarding Gil, but now he was sure, Gil had told him as much, had said that he was supposed to go back to Castle Wulfenbach eventually. (Didn't want that to happen too soon). There had been times when Tarvek had fantasized about winning him back, and maybe, maybe if he had played it right, if he had kept his cool when he'd arrived in Paris...

He dragged a hand down his face.

 _Stop_.

Anyway. Gil was Wulfenbach's. One day, he would serve the Empire. One day, this sharp, dangerous man would be in Tarvek's way. Helping him now was _stupid_ , it didn't make any sense.

Tarvek lowered the temperature of the stove, regulated it with far more precision than was necessary. His path was already littered with so many corpses, one more really shouldn't matter to him like that, he wasn't seven anymore and Gil wasn't even remotely on his side. He hadn't lived this long by not listening to what his brain was telling him.

Walk away.

Now.

While there’s still time.

But he was so tired. It was an exhaustion that reached deep into his bones, so deep it was unbearable. Even his stimulant couldn't overcome it.

He was so, so tired of watching people die.

He stirred the content of his pan, feeling sorry for his own stupidity.

* * *

Tarvek didn't have to spoon feed Gil this time. After several tries, he'd managed to grab the fork well enough, and he was now eating on his own – with the grace and dexterity of a toddler, granted, but progress was progress.

Tarvek watched him finish his meal. He'd thought of several ways to start the conversation they now needed to have, then decided to shut up and let Gil make his move first. He was suspicious of Tarvek, cooperation was more likely if he felt in control.

“So,” Holzfäller said after licking clean his second serving. “What did you find out?”

Tarvek raised an eyebrow at him. He wasn't going to make this _too_ easy. “What makes you think I found out anything?”

Gil rolled his eyes. "You're you. I have no idea why you want me alive, but since it appears you do, you're not going to sit around happily without looking into what's going on. So, who wants me dead?"

Tarvek frowned. That was a rather broad line of questioning. Either Gil was really ignorant, or he was worried and wanted to check how much Tarvek had found out. Maybe both.

“You really don't know?”

“I have no idea.”

Yeah, right. Go ahead and play the innocent bystander who got caught in a fight that had _absolutely nothing to do with him_. Tarvek would have to show some of his cards in a sign of goodwill, he supposed. He played a little with his fork. He wasn't sure how Gil would react, he could be so hard to predict...

“You have to understand that I'm still missing a lot of pieces here. And I have reasons to believe that the pieces I do have were laid out for me to find.”

"For you?"

"Well, for _someone_. What I mean is, don't jump to conclusions. Don't make rash decisions based on what I'll tell you."

"I'm not an idiot, Sturmvoraus," Gil protested.

Tarvek had a half smile.

"No, but you are about as impulsive as a five years old on a caffeine overdose, so in this case, please make an exception and give your brain a chance to kick in."

He could see Gil make a physical effort to avoid confirming that assessment by hitting him with his reading lamp. Good. Get angry. You're easier when you're angry.

"What do you think I might do?" he retorted. "Run off and kill someone in revenge? I can't even stand."

Tarvek ignored the question. He let the silence settle for a few seconds before he started.

"I sent Violetta, my bodyguard, to track down those assassins of yours," he finally said. "She found their name and their employer. There is strong evidence that they were hired by the Andreinev House."

Gil's incredulous stare mirrored Tarvek's reaction when he'd found out. Never in the seven hells had Ludivina devised a plan like that on her own, that was impossible.

"But why?"

Tarvek looked back at him, guarded. This was the more dangerous part of the conversation, but there was no way around it. Not if they were going to work together on this.

"That," he replied, "isn't the correct question."

Gil paused.

"What do you mean by that exactly, Sturmvoraus?"

Tarvek refrained a sigh of frustration. He'd hoped to make Gil say this himself, to make him slip a little... Argh. Couldn't the idiot stop pretending for one second, on this one occasion, just for the sake of staying alive?

"No, you can't afford to play that game now,” Tarvek hissed. “Cards on the table, Gil. We both know 'Holzfäller' isn't really your name."

For an instant, Gil's eyes flared with a ferocity that only the Fugue could create. Tarvek half expected him to snarl, but instead he slowly crossed his arms, leaned back on the sofa.

"What do you know?" he asked with absolute calm.

Tarvek had spent his youth having friendly tea parties with people who could (and would) have his head on a plate, if he gave them the slightest reason to. This felt worse. Gil was still weak, should have been no threat, but all Tarvek could think was : I have never seen him this calm. Ever.

He needed to tear himself from Gil's eyes and take a second or two to ponder an answer. He took his glasses off to clean them with fake detachment.

"You already know I never bought that ridiculous story we found in the vaults. It was full of holes. My expulsion from the Castle only served to increase my suspicions that there was a lot more to your origins than the Baron would have us believe. So I always kept an eye out for information…"

"You researched me," Gil corrected with a hint of exasperation.

Tarvek didn't bother to deny the reformulation and put his glasses back on his nose.

"Six years ago," he continued, "I found evidence that during Teufel's downfall, an infant was found within his lair."

He looked at Gil. His face was blank, not giving anything away.

"The report I read," Tarvek went on, "stated that the child was Teufel's own son. Shortly after this infant was found, young Gilgamesh Holzfäller made his appearance in the official registers, and was later sent to Castle Wulfenbach's school, to be educated together with the future elite of Europe. His origins were kept secret even from him, he was unusually bright even compared to the children of some of the strongest sparks in Europe, and he had some difficulties with the concept of restraint - something that has not, it seems, improved over the years. I drew the logical conclusion."

"Six years ago," Gil repeated. "What did you do with that information?"

"What do you think I did?" Tarvek retorted with some annoyance. "What did you think I would do? Kill you? Sell you? Blackmail you? Is that why you sold me off to the Baron?"

"I drew the logical conclusion," Gil replied, still tense.

"I burned the documents in my possession and tried to forget about your existence," Tarvek told him. "I don't know how Ludivina got her hands on this information, but I had nothing to do with it!"

"Why would I believe you?"

"I just spent three days trying to save your life," Tarvek reminded him, and couldn't quite keep the resentment out of his voice.

"True," Gil said. "So you don't want me dead, I got that. But I'm not ruling out the possibility that one of your little plans somehow backfired on me."

Tarvek rolled his eyes with exasperation.

“Think! You have concluded that I don't want you dead. I couldn't have used Ludivina!”

Gil stared back at him, a little confused, and Tarvek realized that he wasn't following that conclusion.

“Holzfäller,” he asked, frowning, “did you take any interest at all in your late father's history?”

Gil's defensive glare was all the answer he needed. Sweet lightning.

“I know the main events, I didn't really study the details. It's not like it was my _fault_...”

Tarvek sighed heavily. “I didn't say it was, it's just a matter of self-preservation! Lesson one, know your enemies, we talked about that!”

They had.

When Tarvek had met Gil, he was _very much_ in need of lessons in self-preservation. But Gil didn't enjoy being reminded that they had been friends, and retreated a little more in his defensive posture. Tarvek sighed.

“Ludivina was three when Teufel and his Black Mist Raiders ravaged her family's lands. Both her parents and her older brother were killed in the attack, and the townspeople were literally decimated. Anyone with half a brain would know what hearing the Teufel name would do to her. Giving her that information and trying to kill you amount to the same thing. In fact, sharing that information with anyone, in any way, probably amounts to an attempt on your life - the sheer number of people who would want Teufel's son erased from the world…"

"Alright, alright, I hear you," Gil grumbled. "So… someone may be manipulating her, so she would try to have me killed. That's what you're thinking, isn't it?"

"It's obvious! The information about your origins wasn't just lying around, it took some work to dig out, and the Andreinev don't have the resources. They have no intelligence network to speak of. And how did Ludivina manage to hire those kind of assassins? They were too expensive for a family of her standing. No, someone else found out about your origins, someone with a grudge. And this person is pulling Ludivina's strings so she will do the dirty work and take the blame."

Gil nodded. The Master didn't take kindly to acts of violence in his city. Instigators faced a slow and painful death in labs with need of experimental subjects (or spare parts). To manipulate someone else into killing for you was a neat solution.

"Who?" he wondered aloud.

Oh, wow, _finally_.

"Yes, _that_ is the question," Tarvek said. "I don't know. The problem is, there are far too many candidates. Teufel had so many enemies you couldn't count them. And we can't even assume that this unknown person has an issue with your lineage. He could have an entirely different cause."

"Do you imagine there are that many reasons to want me dead?" Gil said, scowling.

Tarvek rolled his eyes.

"You tell me! You keep chasing monsters, wallowing with pirates and running after every crazy spark in this city! I never did bother to find out what this is all about – frankly I know a lot more about your activities than I ever wanted to. But you're always dancing about the place, climbing roofs, getting in trouble, all the while conveniently ending up half-naked so young women can drape themselves all over you! Maybe we're dealing with a jealous husband, how would I know?"

Gil blushed a bit at that last one.

"We are _not_ dealing with a jealous husband!"

"Fiancé?"

"Sturmvoraus!"

"All right, all right! But if there is any other obvious reason why someone might want you dead, now would be a great time to share it."

"There isn't!" Gil stated firmly.

That had come a little bit too fast. Ha. Tarvek pushed his glasses up with his finger and sent him a sharp glance.

"Fair enough. You don't trust me. But if you're going to get out of this in one piece, you'll have to use me. You don't have the luxury to be picky about your tools."

He walked to a desk in the corner of the room, grabbed several sheets of paper and slammed them in front of Gil. They were covered in names.

"What's that?"

"A list of people who have been around Ludivina in the last six months. It's not an exhaustive list, I haven't been watching her, as such. But it's a start. Check if there is anyone in there that Violetta should keep an eye on."

Gil looked at the list of names jotted down in Tarvek's precise handwriting. He sighed.

"I don't get it. Not letting me bleed out in the street is one thing, but this… why are you helping me?"

Tarvek snorted. Not a chance, Holzfäller, we are so not going there.

"You're not answering my questions, I'm not answering yours."

"Well, it would be easier to trust you if I understood your motives."

"We've already been down that road."

Tarvek picked up the plates and left for the kitchen, kept the “offended” face up like a shield until he had cleared the room.

Motives, huh. Rational, explainable reasons for his actions. Well, as soon as he thought of any, he'd let Gil know. He put down the dishes in the sink.

Something. Something bothered him though. Somewhere, at the corner of his eye, something Gil had said... or not said...

He replayed the conversation in his head, but he couldn't find it, and he was exhausted. Talking with Gil felt like running a marathon.

He checked his watch.

Another ten hours before the next dose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I'm finally out of the newborn frenzy ^^ I'll have to go back to some sort of regular schedule now, but I still need to figure out which one. Not sure I can keep up with a chapter every two weeks.  
> Special thanks to Katzedecimal, who tracked all the grammar / spelling / typo hiccups in this chapter :-)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The first method for estimating the intelligence of a ruler is to look at the men he has around him."  
> \- Niccolò Machiavelli

Gil sighed at Tarvek’s name list. He’d spent two hours reading it over and over again. It was unhelpful and annoying. It was way too long anyway, despite the fact that Sturmvoraus had obviously created it from memory. How had he – Ludivina wasn't even politically relevant – did the man mentally record every human interaction in his vicinity?

More to the point, there wasn't anyone in there that Gil could connect to anything specific. As Tarvek had said, there were too many candidates. They’d never narrow it down this way. Damn his father and his stupid, creepy cover stories. Petrus Teufel wasn’t even the only mass murderer who could be linked to Gil. He’d lost track of all the fabricated evidence the Baron had left behind over the years – they were only supposed to last until Gil was old enough, after all.

The most annoying thing about the damn list, though, was the name that had been added last, like as an afterthought:

_Aaronev Tarvek Sturmvoraus_

Seriously now, what did that even mean? 'Go ahead and suspect me?' Of course Tarvek and Ludivina knew each other, they were both in the same biology classes than Gil. Why point it out when it was already clear that this wasn’t Tarvek’s plot?

Gil pinched his nose, feeling a headache coming up. He could recognize a bit of reverse psychology when he saw it. That sneaky weasel had added his name to the list of suspects so that Gil would consciously strike him off that list. He was being pushed to trust more. And it worked. Even though Gil _knew_ it was a trick, and did _not_ want it to work, it still worked, which was totally unfair.

Gil closed his eyes. Trusting Tarvek was dangerous. He had found out about the Teufel story _six years ago_. He’d have been what, thirteen? Years after getting thrown off the Castle. _Years_. All this time he’d kept looking, kept digging information, deeper and deeper. Gil had vastly underestimated how much Tarvek would care. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He should be worried, only... What he was feeling was. A little confusing.

Whatever. Gil wasn’t a child anymore, he could play too, now. He could use Tarvek as much as Tarvek could use him. So, fine. He would go along, take all the help he could, sort out this mess, _and_ find out what this weasel's game was.

Because there was something going on. Tarvek was off, he looked wrong, he… argh. Gil couldn't quite put his finger on it. And there was the conversation Gil had overheard, what had they meant about prince Aaronev? It sounded awfully suspicious. Only Tarvek _was_ helping him, and Gil should really focus on not getting murdered in dark alleys before throwing himself into any more plots.

So. Priorities.

Gil had another annoyed look at the damned list. He’d never get it solved like that, his ass parked on silk cushions. He needed to be able to move.

He tried putting weight on his feet. It was hurting a little less, now. One hand on the wall, he gritted his teeth and slowly stood up. His legs were shaking and… hugh. He felt dizzy and nauseous. The floor was moving under his feet.

Oh. Oh, no. His sense of balance was still messed up. Had to sit down. Right now.

He crashed on the floor.

"Are you trying a contest in stupidity with the other dimwit?" asked a girl's voice. "Because you have some catching up to do, but if you keep at it like that, I’m sure you can still win."

Gil looked up at a teenager in purple clothes. She had red hair, a shade darker than Tarvek’s. A relative? She extended a hand.

“Um,” Gil hesitated. She was a younger girl, and a rather small one at that. “I’m quite heavy, you know...”

“Yeah, I found out when I carried you up the stairs,” she said, unimpressed. “So, do you insist on keeping company with the dust? I don’t mind leaving you down there, live and let live, but...”

“Yes, I mean no. Hum. The carpet isn’t that comfortable.”

He took her hand and she helped him back on the sofa. She balanced his weight with ease. She didn’t have that much raw strength, but used what she had very efficiently.

"Thanks," he said, eyeing her with curiosity. "Who are you?"

She crossed her arms and threw him the kind of look one might have for a pathetic stray dog.

"Violetta. My job is to keep the other idiot's princely butt out of trouble. Which you have not made easy lately, I might add."

Oh, right, Gil thought. Violetta, the bodyguard who couldn't cook.

“But you look way too young,” he said, and immediately regretted the words. Violetta looked pointedly at him like she was considering sending him back to say hello to the rug.

"Sorry," he tried. "Um. Thank you? For the other night. I don't remember very well what happened, but you…"

"Yeah, I got rid of those guys who were trying to off you - except for the one who was clumsy enough to impale himself on Tarvek's knife, of course."

That, Gil remembered. He remembered Tarvek's back. And the dagger, the hand, the eyes. That assassin hadn't been clumsy. He had moved awfully fast, so had Tarvek's hands – empty, unarmed, having just dropped the needle of counter-poison. And then… he closed his eyes briefly, concentrating on the memory.

"Impaled himself?" he asked.

"Stroke of luck," Violetta replied with a hint of exasperation. "that useless fop can barely _hold_ a knife correctly, never mind use it. If he ever tries something that dumb again, I'm personally scalping him. Assuming he survives."

"Are you quite finished?" Tarvek called, walking through the kitchen door. "You've been ranting about that for _days_."

"I'll be finished when you buy yourself a working brain!" Violetta retorted. "One equipped with common sense! But I suspect I'll die first."

"That's my line," Tarvek said, rolling his eyes. "Now go get ready while I discuss our next move with our guest."

Gil waited until Violetta had left the room before staring back at Tarvek.

" _Impaled himself_?" he asked. "Seriously?"

Because that was nowhere near the truth. Tarvek had stolen the assassin's _own blade_ from his hands. Trying that kind of thing was a guaranteed way to end up with a new airway in your throat unless you were _very_ good at close combat. Tarvek sat down in the armchair in front of him. He wasn't quite looking him in the eye.

"Yes. About that. I would be grateful if you didn't mention it to her."

Oh. Interesting.

"You mean she buys that stupid lie?"

"You'd be surprised what people will believe as long as it confirms that they were right all along," Tarvek replied. "Holzfäller…"

"Don't look at me like I'm about to blackmail you, Sturmvoraus. If you want to lie to your own bodyguard about your ability to defend yourself, that's your business, I guess. But why? Do you suspect her of wanting to kill you?"

Really, how paranoiac could one get? Tarvek stared at him like he had just been asked the stupidest question in the universe.

"It would be the epitome of foolishness not to account for the possibility. Although I don't really think she would, Violetta is the most loyal person I know. She hates me, of course, but she's refreshingly straightforward about it. She'd rather scream my ears off than stab me in the back."

"Yeah. She's, hum, very _vocal_ about it."

"She's very vocal about everything," Tarvek shrugged. "Don't annoy her if you want to keep your eardrums intact."

Yeah, and now that Gil was thinking about it, those two's relationship was a little peculiar, wasn’t it? In Tarvek's family, servants were usually silent and efficient, practically hiding inside their uniforms. Gil had seen some of them at parties. They looked like people who knew they might lose their hand if they dared to drop a fork. Violetta – she wasn’t afraid in the slightest. Not only that, she treated Tarvek like some annoying sibling…

Oh.

"So that’s why you lie to her then," Gil said. "So that she’ll be ‘very vocal’ about your supposed weaknesses to everyone else."

There was a flicker of appreciation in Tarvek’s eyes.

"Heh. She does love to complain about me. Meanwhile, my cousins’ spies report how useless I am with a weapon. The next assassin isn’t expecting me to put up a fight. I get to live a little longer."

Yes, that made sense. Gil himself spent a lot of time and energy to mislead the world into thinking he was a harmless libertine. Not just because it made it easier to hide his secret now, but also because it would be helpful later, once he was an official heir and people started digging out information about him. You needed to give a spy a weakness to find, or he would keep looking.

"So, that name list, then?"

Gil leaned back on the sofa. He felt irritated by that conversation before it had even started.

"Nothing. Nothing of relevance. In fact, the only name I can reasonably strike from that list is yours, which is a little disturbing."

Tarvek's eyes met his. Gil held his gaze. Yes, fine, Sturmvoraus had won that round. He had offered help, Gil was taking it, and he was definitely not saying so out loud.

“What about the paper trail?" Gil asked. "You said it yourself, the information on Teufel isn't easy to find. Few people have access to it."

"Hm. I could have Violetta to look into it," Tarvek replied. "But…"

"It'll take time," Gil completed.

"Yes. I don't like it. We need a better plan."

Tarvek stood up and walked to the window. He looked out, not at anything in particular, just letting his gaze wander over the rooftops while he was thinking.

"How long do you think it'll take before people start noticing that we both disappeared at the same time?" Gil added.

Tarvek had a dismissive gesture.

"Everyone knows we can’t stand each other, I don't think people will be too quick to make the link. Besides, Violetta has already spread a perfectly innocent excuse for my absence. About you, now, I've let an appropriate amount of mystery build up. Violetta has cleaned up the assassin's bodies from the street; so as far as the rest of the world is concerned, nothing happened – except that you're somehow missing. With your usual… way of life, most people will simply assume that you're off somewhere in an opium den, or getting involved into some absurd plan to turn all Parisians into parrots…"

"Oh, thank you very much."

"…The people who are behind this little scheme, however, should be starting to worry by now.”

“Mm,” Gil muttered. “You’re hoping they’ll be nervous enough to make a mistake?”

“You never know.”

Gil bit his lips. That might work, but it wasn’t a very reliable plan. He could see that Tarvek wasn’t happy with that either. Hm. Maybe he was taking this the wrong way?

“Sturmvoraus. I’ve been thinking...”

Tarvek raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, I hope you haven’t sprained something.”

Gil glared at him.

“I’ve been thinking that if _you_ wanted to kill me, you’d never do it that way. Seems too messy to be your style.”

Tarvek stilled for a second.

“What is your point?”

“Well. Imagine you want me dead. Someone brings up the plan to manipulate Ludivina into hiring assassins. You don’t like the idea. Why not?”

“You said it yourself, it’s messy,” Tarvek said, frowning. “Too many things can go wrong. What are you trying...”

“What will go wrong?” Gil interrupted. “Specifically. What are you most afraid of? Imagine you don’t want to reject the idea entirely, just optimize it a bit. What do you change first? What’s the weakest link in the chain?”

Tarvek lived for this. He ought to find it, he just needed to reverse engineer the plot a little.

“Ludivina, obviously.”

“Why? She doesn’t need to be very clever, she’s just the scapegoat.”

“Because she would be too unpredictable. If anything unexpected happens she is guaranteed to panic and...” he trailed off, stared in the distance. At the way his eyes were focusing, Gil knew Tarvek was entering a Fugue state. He smiled.

“You’re already working out how you’ll get Ludivina to mess up, aren’t you?”

Tarvek turned towards him, almost trembling with intensity.

“We will _crush_ them before the end of the week. If we just...” then he frowned, his lips pressed in a thin line of disapproval.

"Not before you've recovered, though. You're too easy a target."

"I'm really not!"

"Are you getting cheeky because you manage spoons, now?” Tarvek said with a half smile. “You still can't stand. That makes you easier to kill than almost any living thing, except for house plants and a few molluscs."

Gil's answer to this was a sofa pillow that landed squarely on Tarvek's forehead.

"But I can aim."

Tarvek grabbed the offending cushion as it fell, unfazed.

"Yes, I see how your deadly pillow throwing skills are going to be helpful."

For a moment, his eyes glazed over as he looked down at it in his hand, and Gil wondered if, perhaps, he was remembering too. Pillow fights in the dorms, laughing so hard neither of them could stand straight, sometimes causing von Pinn to come over and grab them by their ears for causing so much noise. They didn't mind, the fun was worth getting screamed at.

Was Tarvek considering throwing that pillow back?

The idea felt foreign, like it wasn't really the same person now standing in front of Gil. When had he even heard Tarvek laugh for the last time? When had he seen him smile of genuine amusement? The man seemed to consider all forms of fun like silly behaviors that should be banned from the universe. No one who had met him would ever believe that he had been in a pillow fight _in his life_.

Of course, the Tarvek Gil had known then wasn't a real person, just an illusion crafted by a seducing snake who was playing along for the sake of his own agenda. Except…

Except the image of eight years old Tarvek laughing until he couldn't catch his breath remained in his mind, even after all these years, stubbornly refusing to fade.

Tarvek discarded the pillow and walked back to Gil, a distant look on his face. He sat and unfastened a dagger sheath at his ankle, hidden under his trousers.

"What are you…"

Tarvek reached for Gil's right leg and began to fasten the sheath on him.

"The blade is balanced both for throwing and close combat. But be careful with it, it's poisoned. I don't expect you'll need it, no one should know to look for you here, and even if they do I've _personally_ trapped this place. But…"

Gil sighed.

"You're paranoiac."

"People want you dead, and we've already established that you're only slightly more dangerous than a common slug. How exactly am I paranoiac?" Tarvek checked that the sheath was secure, then straightened Gil's trouser leg over it.

"For starters, _you_ normally wear that thing, and I'm betting it's not the only weapon you've hidden under your fancy clothes. Weapons that you wear even _in your own flat_ , your flat that you have trapped, and where you live with your bodyguard," Gil counted on his fingers. "Let's not mention the impressive collection of counter-poisons that you seem to carry at all times…"

Tarvek shrugged. After checking the dagger one last time, he stood up and made himself comfortable in an armchair.

"You're in no position to complain about either my counter-poisons or my bodyguard, mister happy-go-lucky Holzfäller. Besides, you _know_ that my family is a bunch of cynical, backstabbing megalomaniacs who see succession wars as a form of light entertainment. What you call paranoia, I call sensible precautions."

Violetta saved Gil from having to answer that by opening the door. She'd added a stealth cape and several daggers to her uniform.

"So," she asked, "has any of you raving geniuses decided what kind of stupidity you're going to inflict on me today?"

Tarvek and Gil looked at each other.

"Find out what Ludivina is doing in the next few days," Tarvek said. “Appointments, university classes, social events, everything.”

“And we will need the names of all the people she speaks with,” Gil added.

“Don’t forget to intercept her letters and to chat with her maid,” Tarvek went on. “The usual. Send me a report in six hours.”

The usual, huh, Gil thought as he watched Violetta walk out of the room. The girl was obviously much more than just a bodyguard.

"She looks very young, doesn't she?" he asked.

"Mmh,” Tarvek muttered absent-mindedly. “She's sixteen."

Sixteen. Gil felt a little sick, as he remembered how efficiently the girl had disposed of his assassins a few nights back.

"Sturmvoraus, _why_ do you have a sixteen years old bodyguard?"

Tarvek threw him a sideways look. There was a second of hesitation, like he was deciding what to tell him.

"She's my cousin, from a vassal house. She was born into my service."

"Let me guess, her father served your father," Gil said, not quite managing to keep the bitterness from his tone. "And her grandfather, your grandfather, and if she ever gets children…"

"Yes."

Those aristocrats and their stupid rules of blood. That was only a slightly better version of slavery, in Gil's opinion. Taking away important choices from people, railroading them into the life their birth destined them for, without consideration for talent, will, or knowledge.

“She doesn't look like she enjoys it very much.”

Tarvek's eyes didn't meet his.

"Couldn't you give her her freedom back?" Gil asked angrily.

"Freedom?” Tarvek snorted. “There is no such thing."

"Talk for yourself. Not everyone has to live like..."

"And you think your shenanigans make you free?" Tarvek interrupted. "In that case, why are you so afraid of going back to Castle Wulfenbach?"

Gil felt himself freeze all over. Tarvek was so sharp, his gaze felt like a razor blade on his throat.

"It's quite obvious that the Baron has plans for you. You are, after all, a strong spark. Very useful in his hands, very dangerous in anyone else's. You wouldn't have his protection if you weren't on his leash."

Gil swallowed wordlessly.

"And really, that's not a bad prospect, considering where you're coming from. But would you call that freedom?"

Gil's fingernails dug into the sofa. Even without knowing. Even without knowing about Gil's real identity, Tarvek had somehow put his finger on the most painful wound in his heart. Was he so easy to read?

"To answer your question, no, I can't release Violetta from her service," Tarvek said, impassive. He picked up his glasses and started to clean them. "I don't have the authority. She serves me, but she belongs to the Family. She swore an oath, and my people do tend to take these things quite seriously. The only thing I could do would be to have her reassigned somewhere else. But frankly, she's better off with me. At least for now."

He raised his pince-nez in the light to check for remaining stains.

Gil narrowed his eyes. Cleaning his glasses was a trick Tarvek often used to keep his composure when he was unsettled.

"You've given this a lot of thought, for someone who claims freedom doesn't exist," Gil remarked.

Tarvek's face remained blank, but his fingers twitched and Gil knew he'd hit a nerve.

"You must be awfully bored, Holzfäller, if you find time to worry about my relatives," he replied with faked cheerfulness. "Let's fix that."

Oops.

He stood up and walked to Gil, looming over him.

"You've had enough rest. We're starting on rehabilitation exercises _right now_."

That sounded more like a threat than an offer for medical treatment. Gil was all for regaining mobility as soon as possible ; but Tarvek's smirk didn't make the idea as appealing as it should be.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...desire always exceeds what is attainable."  
> \- Niccolò Machiavelli

“Holzfäller.”

Tarvek prodded Gil's shoulder.

“I know you're awake.”

No reaction. His fingers slid on Gil's wrist to check his pulse, just in case. Weak but steady, and definitely not slow enough for sleep.

“M'not opening my eyes,” Gil mumbled. “You're gonna make me stand up again.”

Tarvek smiled. Heh, maybe he'd been a little hard on him, but Gil could take it and they didn't have a lot of time.

“You _should_ stand up again. You’ve been asleep for almost twelve hours.”

He placed a plate of pancakes right under his nose. Gil opened one eye and stared at it, like he expected it to be some sort of trap. He looked very much like his eight years old self, half asleep and hair even messier than usual.

“There's honey and maple syrup in the kitchen,” Tarvek added. “And coffee.”

“That’s how you do it, isn’t it?” Gil groaned.

“Do what?”

“Make people do whatever you want. You give them stuff, like, like caffeine and sugar and stuff. And then they do everything they swore they’d never ever do five minutes ago.”

Tarvek had to bite back laughter.

“You’ve got me. That’s my evil plan. World domination by pancakes.”

Gil sat up and yawned.

“Works for me. You win. Breakfast.”

Tarvek watched Gil get out of bed, wobbling his way towards the kitchen.

“You know, you might want to get dressed first.”

Gil stopped in his tracks and stumbled on his own feet. Tarvek caught him just in time, almost tumbling over with him. Ouch. This big oaf had sure put on weight. Muscles. Whatever.

Tarvek helped Gil back on his feet, then watched him retreat under his blanket.

“WHY do I not have anything on?” Gil squeaked. Tsk. As if there was anything left to hide that Tarvek hadn’t seen already. After a week of intensive care, there wasn’t much point in getting shy in front of your doctor.

“You took a shower, then you just walked to the bed like a half sleeping zombie and fell on it. Don’t you remember it?”

“After what I went through yesterday, I’m surprised I remember my own name,” Gil retorted, glaring accusingly. Ha. Considering what he’d inflicted on Tarvek this past year, he had no right to complain.

“It’s not my fault you got yourself poisoned.”

“You make it sound like I somehow sniffed green vedora in the lab. I didn’t ‘get myself poisoned’, people tried to kill me.”

“Oh, stop whining already. I’ve left clean clothes for you on the chair. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, Gil sat in front of his cup of coffee with a sigh of satisfaction. Tarvek looked at him eating his pancakes with quiet voracity. He was still pale, and he tired easily, but he’d regained most of his fine and gross motor skills. It was amazing how quickly he was recovering, really. A few days ago, Tarvek wouldn’t have bet much on the chance that Gil would walk again, at least not without extensive Spark medical intervention.

He drank his coffee, but could not get rid of the cold feeling in his stomach. Not that it mattered. He would feel much better after tearing through the fools who had come up with this stupid plot. Gil was well enough for his plan, now.

“You’re not eating?” Gil asked.

Tarvek looked up from his cup, and realized that Gil had already devoured almost everything on the table. He swallowed his smile with his coffee.

“I’m not hungry. Go ahead. After all, you’re going to need all the energy you can get.”

Gil winced.

“What in the seven hells are you planning again?”

“A party.”

Gil’s gaze sharpened. Not surprised, just suspicious.

“A party,” he repeated.

“Yes. The Duchess von Umwetter’s spring ball.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Gil said between two bites. “Heard of it. Not invited.”

“Ah, but you are,” Tarvek corrected. He picked up the card in his waistcoat pocket and placed it on the table. It had Gil’s name in elaborate golden letters. “I took the liberty to RSVP for you.”

“How did you do that?” Gil said, frowning. “Heinrich von Umwetter can’t stand me. I’m not posh enough for him. And his mother hit me with her umbrella that one time with the flying monkeys, because they’d spooked her horses.”

“They _almost ate_ her horses.”

“Not my fault,” Gil groaned.

Tarvek rolled his eyes at him. Of course it was never Gil’s fault. Chaos and destruction just sort of _happened_ around him and if you were anywhere on his way, why, it was just your bad luck.

“Anyway, that was an easy one. I annoyed Seffie, so she got you an invitation in the hope that you’ll annoy me back. She knows I plan on going and she’s quite certain that seeing you among the _crème de la crème_ eating all the canapés and flirting with the girls is going to spoil my evening.”

“As if I’d do that,” Gil said with a wry smile.

“I’m counting on it.”

“Sounds interesting,” Gil said, leaning on his elbow. “So Seffie’s got a ticket with the dukeling, then?”

“Heinrich is courting her. He’s quite prepared to endure your presence if it can get him a second dance.”

Gil had an appreciative smile.

“You got what you wanted. You got to annoy your cousin. _And_ she’s the one who will be owing someone else a favor. Not bad.”

Somewhere in Tarvek’s head, a small alarm bell went off. This seemed out of character. Usually Gil would unleash a boatload of disapproval and insults at a trick like that. He’d call Tarvek an underhanded weasel and probably side with Seffie. Yet now, he was… almost praising. It could mean Gil was trying to encourage Tarvek to help him, but it didn’t feel calculated. More like – like he’d let his guard down. Tarvek made a mental note to think about it later.

“Well, there’s a limit to what you can do with pancakes,” he said with a smirk.

“So tell me, Sturmvoraus, what are we going to do at Her Grace’s spring ball, aside from showing off my bad manners? I assume Ludivina will be there?”

“That’s what Violetta reported. Come with me, I’ll show you my notes.”

Tarvek stood up and led Gil to his study room. He wouldn’t usually let people in there – Violetta was under strict orders to leave the room alone unless Tarvek’s life was at stake. Not that she wanted to wander in there in the first place, anyone who knew anything about Sparks knew that they needed a lair, and that the place was better avoided. The study room was the closest thing to a lair that would fit into a small city apartment. It had a workbench, a desk, a spinet, a small a set of tools for the everyday need, and any leftover wall was covered in bookcases. They were starting to get a bit full, despite the fact that Tarvek had organized the books in a double row system. Gil’s eyes widened when he walked in. Tarvek couldn’t help feeling a bit smug.

“Did you buy all of those here?” Gil asked, gesturing at the books.

“Many, but not all. I brought a couple of favorites from Sturmhalten.”

Gil scowled at him.

“Must be nice, having all those footmen scurrying around and shipping your books across half the continent for you,” he said, bitter.

“Jealous?” Tarvek snapped back.

“Red fire, yes!” Gil retorted, looking around.

The simple admission slammed its way past Tarvek’s defences. He had no answer ready for that. Thankfully, Gil changed the subject on his own and turned towards the East wall.

“So I’m guessing those are your… notes.”

Tarvek had set up a big board on this side of the room. It was entirely covered in tiny handwriting. Lots of names linked by arrows indicating relationships and with some side notes next to them. “Hates Holfung-Borzoi”. “Tsar’s second cousin”. “Owes debt to the Endolfr House”. “Daughter engaged to Earl of Riven’s second son”. And so on.

“The party’s attendees, I assume,” Gil said.

His eyes were following the arrows from name to name, jumping quickly across the board and registering information. Tarvek looked at him with interest. He’d forgotten how fast Gil was. At university, he was always goofing around, not paying attention.

“Indeed.”

“Sturmvoraus, _when_ did you do all that?”

“You slept quite a while.”

Gil’s eyes narrowed at him in suspicion, but he didn’t push the subject and turned back to the board instead.

“So, I barge in there, Ludivina is very unhappy to see me alive, and then… we let the mess unroll.”

“It’s a golden opportunity. All the major troublemakers will be there. We throw a stone into that, the ripples will tell us everything we need to know.”

“That could get all of us killed very quickly.”

Gil looked back at him again, his head tilted like when he was observing the results of an interesting experiment – not worried, almost challenging. Tarvek focused to swallow his feelings, to keep his breath even, to prevent a predatory smile from showing up on his face. It was harder than usual.

“That is correct,” he said.

Gil looked like he was wondering, about to ask again, why do you do that, what is in it for you.

“Of course there is still one issue,” Tarvek blurted, eager to interrupt this train of thoughts.

“Which is?”

“It’s important that you don’t look hurt,” he added, making it up as he went. “You’ve regained most of your motor control, but we don’t know if it’ll be enough for dancing.”

Gil rolled his eyes at him.

“More rehabilitation exercises, Sturmvoraus? Didn’t I go through enough of that?”

“Obviously not,” Tarvek said, frowning. “You’re supposed to be studying medicine. Surely you know that these kind of therapies last longer than a day. You’ll be dealing with after-effects for some time, but never mind that. We need to know if you can put up enough of a show to last for most of the evening. Our plan won’t work if you end up collapsing on the dance floor or tripping on your own feet two steps into the first waltz.”

Gil stared at him in confusion.

“What exactly…”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Tarvek said, going to his music device. Gil laughed at him.

“How many of these things did you build? One in each room?”

“Obviously,” Tarvek said distractedly. He went through his programs, looking for a slow waltz to start with.

“Obviously,” Gil repeated. He sounded amused. “But what exactly are you expecting me to do here? I can’t dance without a partner.”

“Sweet lightning,” Tarvek sighed, “If that’s the only excuse you can think of, you can dance with me.”

Even though he had come up with this idea as a distraction, it would be truly useful to know in advance if Gil could hold himself in a ball. He could avoid the dance floor altogether, if it was an issue. It’d look a bit odd, but not as odd as collapsing in public.

Gil's laughter echoed again, a bit forced.

“I can’t dance with you, you’re a man!”

Tarvek raised an eyebrow at him.

“So?”

“And I’m a man too!” Gil added.

“You don’t say.”

Gil scowled, his arms crossed defensively.

“We can’t dance with each other, is my point!” 

“Of course we can, why the hell not? I’ll follow, if that’s what worries you.”

Gil paused. He threw at Tarvek the same incredulous glare as when he’d heard about the cooking thing.

“You’ve done that before?”

Tarvek blushed a little. It wasn’t something he’d really meant to share, but. It wasn’t something he’d ever tried to hide, either.

“Sure. It’s a useful skill to have.”

“What… _dancing_ with men?”

Tarvek rolled his eyes at him.

“Yes, I dance with women _and_ men, sometimes for fun and sometimes for teaching. It’s really not that different. And many women enjoy leading, you know.”

“And you, the heir of His Highness Prince Aaronev of Sturmhalten, you’re okay with letting women lead,” Gil added, doubtful.

Hearing his father’s name almost made Tarvek hiss in anger. He squashed the urge, his tone turning only slightly more aggressive.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. It’s just a different way to enjoy the same thing. You should try it sometime.”

Gil stared at him as if he’d just spotted a plot to humiliate him. Tarvek looked at his suspicious expression, at the way he was biting his own lips nervously, as if Tarvek had suggested… his anger dissipated into a burst of laughter.

“You know, for a guy who’s rumored to have _danced_   with half the entertainers of Montmartre, you’re surprisingly conservative about this.”

“I didn’t!... I’m not!... It just feels awkward, okay.”

Gil was now as red as a rosebush in blossom. How entertaining. Tarvek had never managed to make him blush like this before.

“Well, rest assured, your reputation for being a manly cad who thrives around doxies will not suffer. There are no witnesses. Come here and stop whining,” Tarvek said gesturing for Gil to join him in the middle of the room. Gil didn’t have a choice now, he would ridicule himself far more if he kept refusing, so he walked up, his ears still red.

“You can imagine I’m one of those blond nitwits you keep dragging around, if it helps,” Tarvek couldn’t resist teasing.

“It doesn’t!” Gil retorted, the blush hurrying back with a vengeance. How fascinating.

He looked at Tarvek as if he couldn’t believe this was happening. Tarvek took pity and positioned his hands for the waltz, since the poor man couldn’t seem to remember what he was supposed to do with them. As promised, he took the follow’s position. He resisted the urge to nudge or take over as the music started. Gil hesitated a few beats, took a deep breath, and stepped into the dance.

After a few messy moves, he found the music’s rhythm and his hold on Tarvek’s back became firmer. Before long, he took lead in earnest. Gil could in fact dance quite well – it was part of the curriculum on Castle Wulfenbach after all, like fencing, politics and foreign languages. It had been a while since Tarvek had last followed a dancer almost as good as himself. Anticipating Gil’s moves was effortless – he made it effortless, communicating subtly but clearly, and perfectly in step with the music. Tarvek relaxed into it, into the regular rhythm of the waltz and the reliable strength of Gil’s hands.

Gil’s hands.

Tarvek breathed out to slow down his heartbeat. He was. Too close. This – this was such a stupid, dangerous idea, why had he – he couldn’t stop it now, only a minute into the waltz. It would seem suspicious. Probably. He tried to focus on the dance, to forget the weight of Gil’s body moving in perfect sync with him.

“See,” he said, his tone light and uncaring. “You survived.”

“Oh, do shut up,” Gil replied, still an interesting shade of red. “It’s just. I don’t know, it never occurred to me to try… anyway. You’re. Actually doing it right. I was almost sure you were going to hijack.”

“I could,” Tarvek said with a smirk.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. In fact, I, uh, I never tried to follow.”

“No, really? Call me surprised,” Tarvek said with fake astonishment.

“Yeah, ok, I get it!”

“It’s not as hard as you seem to think it is,” Tarvek added, softening. “You shouldn’t have much trouble with the technical part, you’re already a passable dancer.” He grinned at Gil “Mainly you need to make up your mind about giving up control. I realize _that_ could be a challenge.”

“If you can do it then it can’t be that hard,” Gil replied between gritted teeth.

Tarvek laughed. He knew Gil was trying to manipulate him because he was too embarrassed to ask with actual words. How had Tarvek spent entire months not knowing how easy it was to fluster him? At university it was somehow always Tarvek who ended up feeling mortified, whereas Gil never was ashamed of anything whatsoever.

Well. Teasing a while longer might be fun, but then Gil might back off and sulk.

Tarvek shifted his weight on the next step, throwing Gil off balance. He adjusted his hands, his arm firmly around Gil’s back, and took over. Gil made a show of being shocked and annoyed for a few beats but his feet naturally fell back into the rhythm – he had expected Tarvek to take his bait, after all.

“You…”

Tarvek felt him resist and tug, and then try not to.

“Stop deciding where we’re going, and start listening.”

“Yeah. Sure, but. How do you even – ”

Tarvek did not let him take back lead, guiding him despite the tugging. Gil went offbeat, tripped, recovered. Tarvek narrowed his eyes at him.

“Stop it.”

“I’m trying!”

He rolled his eyes.

“Well stop trying so hard. Let go a little.”

“ _Fine_ , but how do I do that?”

“You’re ridiculous. Close your eyes.”

Gil recoiled, fear and suspicion ringing in his voice.

“What? No!”

“You’ve had your eyes closed in this apartment before, Holzfäller, and no one tried to kill you,” Tarvek said, exasperated. “Anyway, both my hands are on you, so you’ll know what I’m doing much more immediately than if you were just watching me. Basic principle of close combat. You fence, you have to know that. In fact, you can think of it as dueling, if you must. If this was an _engagement_ , you’d try to predict my moves, right? Just do that. And then follow.”

The comparison with fencing must have helped, because Gil let out a long breath, closed his eyes, and fell into step with Tarvek.

All backleading attempts were gone now. Gil was still tense, but not resisting, more like a cat waiting quietly for the moment to leap. All contained power, held back to leave space for the waltz. It felt strange. Tarvek was leading and not fighting for it, and – in truth he had not expected Gil, with all his effortless brilliance and hubris, to allow this much, to pass over control this quickly. It was a little intimidating.

Tarvek tried to swallow the lump in his throat. He was maybe playing a bit with fire, here. When the music finally ended, he let go and Gil threw him a sideway glance. It took him a few seconds to realize that he was supposed to give his opinion.

“Good,” he forced out. “You’ll probably survive the evening. I’ll check in with Violetta. See you later.”

He made sure his exit wouldn’t look like he was running away.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It is far safer to be feared than loved.”  
> \- Niccolò Machiavelli

Alone in Tarvek’s study room, Gil wondered what to make of what had just happened. He felt confused. He wasn’t used at feeling confused. Gil was very smart and rarely encountered anything he would rate “complicated” about the world, or the little people living inside it. Most of them were stupid, predictable, and easy to build if you could get the parts.

He had thought he’d figured Tarvek out too, but since he had woken up in this flat, he had been taken by surprise an embarrassing amount of times.

He turned around to the board, its hundred names and relationships, its facts and notes and questions.

Did Tarvek understand what he had done by showing this to Gil? The entire game board of European high society, neatly annotated by one of the major players – it was like showing your cards at poker. He had drawn out the alliance between the Duke of Schwetzerland and the Marquess of Venshire, summarized the quiet feud between Lord Ethingam and Baron Janeklav – little secrets, silent motives, ever moving circles of loyalties.

Of course, Tarvek knew what he had done. Otherwise there would be no point in doing it at all. He wanted to make sure Gil understood the game before letting him step into it. He was letting Gil peek at his cards. Not all of them, surely, but…

Knowledge was a weapon, and the fewer people to share that knowledge, the better. The Baron had taught him that, but the first person who had said those words to him was Tarvek – hiding notes behind his light fixture, all those years ago.

Then there was the dancing. Gil had no idea what to think of the dancing, it didn’t fit anywhere in the grid he had built to decode Tarvek Sturmvoraus.

He turned around, his eyes wandering on the bookcases, the workbench – the tidiest workbench ever owned by a spark, probably – and the beautiful 17th century spinet. He let his fingers run on the instrument, following its golden patterns. The study room at least was everything Gil had expected. Books, clanks and music, everything dear to Tarvek’s heart. How could Gil know him both so well and so little? He was missing a piece of the puzzle, and he wasn’t even sure what shape it was.

He heard the front door open. There were footsteps, and Violetta’s voice, low and angry.

“You’ve got mail. Again.”

Gil stepped silently to the door and looked inside the corridor. He saw her take a letter from her pouch and give it to Tarvek, who read it quickly before putting it away in his waistcoat.

“Tarvek,” Violetta insisted, “He’s getting impatient. We have to…”

“I will deal with it,” he snapped at her.

“But…”

“Enough,” he hissed, and Violetta fell silent.

Gil stepped back and pretended to study the board, in case Tarvek chose to come back. But he waited in vain. Whatever Tarvek did about the letter, he did it away from Gil’s eyes.

* * *

Tarvek avoided Gil for most of the day, so Gil borrowed a couple of books from his library (he didn’t even have to disable any trap. It turned out Tarvek had built his own clank-librarian, an angry little thing named Thomas who agreed to let him take them after writing down his name in his records and threatening slow and painful death in case they weren’t returned by the next day. Why anyone would need record keeping to manage their own private books was beyond Gil. In another life, Tarvek could have been working at the Immortal Library).

It was almost evening when Violetta came in with neatly folded clothes in her arms.

“I brought you something to wear for the ball,” she told him. “Orders of the other moron.”

Gil looked up from his novel.

“Oh, thank you but are you sure those will fit m… wait. Those are _my_ clothes.”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Yeah, obviously. That’s the point.”

“And last time I checked they were in my closet, in my bedroom.”

Violetta threw him a confused look, like she didn’t even understand what he was getting at. Great heavens, that family.

“Why in all hells did you _break into my apartment_ , you could have just asked!”

“Oh, it was no trouble,” Violetta replied. “It was hardly locked at all.”

Gil buried his sigh between the pages of his book. Educating nobility to the concept of personal boundaries felt like too much work for tonight.

“It was locked in the normal way private apartments are locked,” he said sharply.

“What? No, it didn’t even have any death trap. How do you expect to keep people out without death traps?” Violetta told him like she was explaining the most obvious thing to an absolute lackwit.

“Your kind of people?” Gil said between gritted teeth. “No idea, but I’ll be working on it.”

He turned his page furiously. There was no point in making anything big out of it, he did need the clothes; but by the seven hells, _blast those entitled, arrogant bastards_.

After another perplexed glare in his direction, Violetta left him alone. If she ever tried that again, she was going to find herself drowned in honey and then thrown into the Seine, Gil swore to himself. Although really it wasn’t even her fault, she obeyed Tarvek’s orders, and didn’t it tell a lot about the little weasel that his bodyguard thought there was nothing unusual about entering other people’s houses without permission.

Gil almost threw his book on the sofa, then checked himself and put it on the coffee table (no need to antagonize Thomas, Gil was in enough library-related troubles as it was). Well. He’d tried not to be too curious about Tarvek’s side plots, but if snooping around in Gil’s flat was perfectly fine, he didn’t see why he couldn’t return the courtesy.

* * *

“Holzfäller, are you dressed? We should…”

Tarvek stopped dead, the doorknob still in his hand. Gil didn’t bother hiding the letter he was holding. He looked at Tarvek, read the anger and shock on his face, and then his expression smoothing into forced blankness.

“I will only say it once,” Tarvek said. “Put this down, get dressed, don’t speak of it.”

Gil shook his head. No. No, he was damned if he let him play it that way.

“Don’t speak of it? Tarvek, your sister died. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Tarvek’s tone was so neutral it could just as well have come out of a clank.

“It’s a private matter. It doesn’t concern you. You have no right to demand such information from me.”

He crossed the room and opened his cupboard, examining his shirts like there was nothing more capital than to select the right one.

“It does concern me,” Gil said. “You’re spending your time here, scheming with me, instead of going home while your father is grieving, and your sister…”

“My sister is _dead_. You’re not. Yet.”

Tarvek picked a shirt and started to look for cufflinks.

 “But what if she can be revived!” Gil protested. “You could help…”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Tarvek cut him.

Gil almost asked why and then the answer dawned on him.

“Ah. Yes,” he said, his voice heavy with contempt. “I forgot Fifty Families rules. _Much_ more important than people’s lives.”

He barely even saw Tarvek move before he found himself slammed against the wall, a hand on his throat, expert fingers cutting the blood flow in his carotid artery. He grabbed Tarvek’s arm and tried to break his hold. Sweet lightning, he was still awfully weak –

“Now you listen to me, you lecherous little _rat_ ,” Tarvek said. “Anevka wasn’t a precious little princess waiting to be rescued in her déshabillé. She was a devious, murderous, frighteningly intelligent psychopath who had _no_ intention to die. She was my older sister, my only ally, and the person I feared most on this Earth, and if there was anything, anything at all, that I could do to keep her alive, then _I would be doing it!_ But there isn’t, and she would never expect me to run home crying like some overemotional child. _”_

On the border of passing out, Gil felt him let go and crashed on the ground. He breathed in, his heart pounding madly against his ribcage. Tarvek walked away to his mirror and started to get dressed as if nothing had happened.

“I know nothing can be done because I know how she was killed,” he added matter-of-factly.

“Killed?” Gil asked, still fighting against the dizziness. “The letter said it was a lab accident.”

“There are no accidents in Sturmhalten, Holzfäller. Especially not in the labs. He killed her. He hooked her up to his damn machine for his damn useless experiment. It distorted her neural pathways, sending her into an irreversible neurological breakdown, leaving nothing behind but a puppet of flesh. Even if I tried, that's all I could revive. A puppet.”

Gil listened to this in shock and stood back up, his heart still beating hard in his chest. He was starting to link the dots, and the answer to the riddles of Tarvek’s behavior made him feel sick.

“Are you talking about your father?”

Tarvek’s fingers made a brief pause from buttoning up his shirt. He looked at his reflection in the mirror.

“Who else would dare?” he said.

“The letter says he's very distraught.”

“Oh, I’m sure he is,” Tarvek hissed with barely contained rage. “Most toddlers tend to be after they break one of their toys. And then of course his experiment failed, which means that on top of killing his only daughter, he has to suffer the bitter disappointment of being wrong.”

“And now he wants you back to… what? Comfort him?”

 “Yes.”

“But… That's…”

“Isn't that what children do?” Tarvek answered while putting on his cufflinks. “They cry a lot, and then they move on to their next toy.”

“I didn’t think you were the kind of person who would call himself someone else’s toy,” Gil blurted out because Tarvek’s words were physically painful to hear and he couldn’t stand it. He expected anger, but Tarvek just looked at his cufflinks as if they were the most fascinating accessories in the known world.

“Then you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

He went to sit down at his vanity table, took a small vial from a drawer and spun it absent-mindedly on the table. Then he grabbed it and drank the content.

“Tarvek…” Gil started, worried but unsure what to say.

Tarvek looked up and stared at him through the mirror.

“For the last time, _get dressed_. We have work to do.”

Gil watched him pick up his cosmetics and cover up the shadows under his eyes with short, efficient strokes. He looked worn out. Maybe it would be better to just call everything off, but. Gil had no idea how to break that wall down. He didn’t even know if he had the right to try.

“Alright,” he said, defeated.

* * *

Some noble houses had high-ranked titles and ancient names. Some had money. The Umwetter had both. Much like the Sturmvoraus, the Spark ran in their family and had helped them maintain power and status through modern times. They were pretty high on the Baron’s watch list of potential troublemakers. Their Parisian house was a huge manor in 16th century style, full of high windows, its stone walls sculpted to look like draped silk. Cabs were stopping in front of the gate one after the other, letting out their guests in evening clothes.

Gil shot a sideways glance at Tarvek. He was wearing a deep blue coat covered in ornate golden embroidery, a white waistcoat displaying a completely nonsensical number of buttons, and the Sturmvoraus sigil pinned on his tie. The signs of his exhaustion were covered in make up and his hands hidden in gloves, his jaw set, his walls up. That was the Tarvek Gil couldn’t stand; the Tarvek who was a coat of faked pleasantness on a core of arrogance and cold threat. Gil tried to remember the pancakes, the waltz and the sudden laughter. It was hard to believe it had happened only hours ago.

He knew he was partly responsible for Tarvek’s full retreat in his “smooth-talking fop” routine, and it didn’t make it any easier to bear. He was fighting the irrational urge to tear off all those stupid buttons. And the frills. Sweet Lightning, did he want to burn down the frills.

“I’ll go in first,” Tarvek said. “Holzfäller, you wait fifteen minutes and you make your entrance. Be a loud irritating cad – I don’t know why I bother saying that, just behave as usual – “

“Oh, thank you so very much,” Gil said.

Tarvek ignored him, like he had ignored everything Gil had said and done since their conversation about Anevka’s death. It was like Gil was there without being there, something to look past and not to look at.

“Violetta,” Tarvek went on, “you stay with him and out of sight. Don’t leave his side, no excuses. Keep him alive and out of trouble.”

Gil would have objected being talked about as if he was some troublesome eight years old, but Violetta did all the ranting for him.

“I’m supposed to keep _you_ alive and out of trouble, you blue-blooded nitwit” she protested. “If you get yourself hurt or worse, Grandmama will skin me!”

“I can survive one evening without you,” Tarvek snapped.

“I doubt you can survive _five minutes_ without me!”

Tarvek shot her a murderous glare.

“Specific orders come first, save for cases of absolute emergency. Do I have to keep quoting the goddamn book at you, or are you going to do your job, for a change?”

She punched him in the stomach. Gil watched Tarvek take the blow he could have avoided and bend over in pain.

“Is that it?” he hissed. “Did you get it out of your system? Can I go now?”

“If you do something stupid, I will never let you forget it.”

He stood up, smoothing down his clothes. He threw a last meaningful glare at Violetta and walked towards the gate. Gil looked at his watch. Half past nine. Most of the guests would be there by now. He just needed to wait until Tarvek had mingled among the guests and started a conversation with Ludivina.

He looked up at Violetta. She was staring at him like an unlucky babysitter would stare at her ill-behaved charge. Gil sighed.

“Look, I know you don’t want to be here…”

She rolled her eyes at him.

“It’s not that. It’s that we need to be somewhere else.”

“I’m sorry about Anevka,” Gil said after a pause.

“You know about that, hey? Well, don’t be. If it wasn’t for Tarvek, she’d have bled me out on her freaking slab, probably more than once. She was crazy. Worse than the usual kind of crazy.”

“The way she died must be a bit disturbing, though,” Gil added, looking at his shoes.

“Why?” Violetta asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Killed by her own father?”

“Oh. That,” Violetta shrugged. “Not really. That’s just what we do in our family, when we don’t have anything more important in our agenda. We stab each other all the bloody time. It’s like a weird hobby.” She looked in the distance for a while, at the huge townhouse and its bright, expensive windows. “That’s how we will all die.”

Gil bit his lip. That wasn’t really new information, but most assassinations in Tarvek’s family had to do with power struggles and succession wars. This was different. Anevka had been killed in an experiment. Who the hells would experiment on their own daughter? Wasn’t that what minions were supposed to be for?

“You think he’d kill Tarvek too?”

“Worried, are you?” she said with a smirk.

Gil looked away, his hands in his pockets.

“Who knows,” she answered. “Tarvek’s the heir. Maintaining the line is supposed to be important, so that would be pretty stupid, but… the fact is, my uncle is bloody insane. He’s a Spark, so of course he was always kinda mad. But lately, I don’t know. He hardly comes out of the lab anymore. He’s obsessed. It just keeps getting worse. Tarvek says he’s frustrated because his research isn’t going anywhere.”

“What is he researching, anyway?” Gil asked.

She scoffed at him.

“Even if I was allowed to give you that kind of information, I couldn’t even begin to explain it. It’s Spark stuff. You’ll have to ask Tarvek.”

Gil refrained a frustrated sigh. He wouldn’t bet much on his chances to get a straight answer from Tarvek about something like that, Sparks could be awfully paranoid about their research. Only very few people knew what went on in the Baron’s lab, and for good reasons. He’d have to ask his father’s spymaster. She had a rather thick folder on the topic of Prince Aaronev.

“I suppose using Anevka must have made sense in his head at the time,” Violetta went on. “That’s usually how it goes with madboys. There must have been some reason, something she ate or she said, something in her blood, and then he decided no, I can’t just strap any random person in my awful machine this morning, it’s got to be my daughter. Who knows what will make sense in his head tomorrow? It’s so dumb to stall and make him angry. Dumb, dumb, dumb.”

She hit a loose paver with her foot. Gil could see her nervousness and he felt guilt take him at the throat. It was his fault that Tarvek wasn’t on his way home.

“On whose side would you be?” he asked.

“Sorry, what?”

“If Prince Aaronev wants his son dead, whose orders do you obey?” Gil clarified.

“Oh. That’s easy. I’m Tarvek’s. I follow him into hell and I go down with him, that’s the rule.” She sighed loudly and kicked the stone again. “Unless, of course, the lackwit leaves me behind on the fucking pavement.”

* * *

Tarvek pushed Gilgamesh out of his thoughts as he stepped into the ballroom. This – this he knew, this he could handle. It was his battlefield of choice, intrigue woven in between the lace and Champagne.

Although the Duchess could not really compete with Tarvek’s grandmother in the fancy party department, she certainly came to an honorable second place. There were luminescent balloons, exotic birds, an orchestra, several jugglers, and, for some reason, a bear who looked rather grumpy. It was the last big party of the season. Everyone who was anyone was there.

Tarvek located Ludivina immediately, but took the time to greet the Duchess and a few other acquaintances first. He listened to Colette’s troubles with her endless suitors, flirted a bit with Ludmilla, grabbed a glass of wine on a tray, and finally feigned to notice his target.

Ludivina was dressed in an elegant but simple green gown, her blond hair held up in an old-fashioned bun. She was a little pale, both of her hands on her glass, oblivious to the conversations around her. Tarvek sat next to her and started talking about one of their professor. She smiled at him, but she could barely hide how distracted she was. She was worried.

She was worried that Gil might be alive.

Tarvek felt himself grow colder at the thought. Here was the irrelevant, boring little noblewoman who had decided to end the life of someone he cared about. And now she was sitting there, in her pretty silk dress and her white gloves, all upset because those ugly back alley stabbings might come back to inconvenience her, after all. Even if she had been tricked, even if she hadn’t thought it through, she had still played her part in this terrible plot. The part of ordinary evil, petty revenge and stupidity.

No matter. She was his prey, now.

Tarvek endeavored to make her laugh, to force her guard down, and she gave in easily, glad to escape the fear gnawing at her. She started relaxing a bit on her chair, sipping at her wine while he told her about André Vaudeville’s latest failed experiment.

The sound of crashing glass resounded through the ballroom, and Tarvek did not need to turn around to know Gil had taken his instructions to heart. He kept his eyes on Ludivina as she turned towards the noise. He saw the curiosity on her face, and then the instant she recognized Gil and froze in terror. Her glass escaped from her hand, shattering at her feet.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she spluttered.

“There is no harm done,” Tarvek said with an easy smile, as he signaled one of the footmen to come clean up the mess. “Is your dress stained? Shall I escort you to the dressing room?”

“What?” she asked, hardly listening. “Oh, no. Never mind.”

She pulled at her gloves, her eyes darting around the room, slightly shaking. She kept looking at Gil, and looking away, then back at him, obviously torn about what to do next. Great heavens, she was so bad at this. It was pathetic.

“Are you quite alright?” Tarvek asked with all the concern he could fake. “You seem upset.”

“I’m fine,” she replied, standing up. “I really am. Only I must…”

Oh no, she wasn’t getting away. Tarvek wasn’t allowing it.

“Has this lout offended you in any way?” he interrupted. “Because if he did…”

“What?” Ludivina cut him. “No, I mean, who?”

“Gilgamesh Holzfäller, of course,” Tarvek said.

She stared at him in panic.

“How…? Of course not.” She looked away, almost desperate. Tarvek saw her locking eyes with someone and… oh.

Oh, no.

He took her hand firmly. He was certainly not going to let them communicate.

“My dear, you’re out of sorts. And you have been ever since Holzfäller has walked into this room. Something is quite obviously wrong. Please, sit down, I insist.”

He led her back to the chair she had just abandoned, his expression kind but his voice commanding, and she dared not resist him. It was child’s game for a Spark like him to subdue such a feeble mind. He grabbed a new glass on a passing tray and pressed it into her hands.

“And now you must tell me, what has this clod done to you? Just say the word, and I will make sure he receives his rightful retribution. He may be able to seduce the others with his cheap charm, but I know him for who he is. He spends his free time lounging about in brothels and opium dens, and God knows what else. I’m quite certain he must be involved in criminal activities of some sort. Hardly surprising really, knowing where he comes from. As my mother always said, bad blood never lies.”

“What did you say?” she whispered. “What about Mr. Holzfäller’s blood?”

He could have read out loud the thoughts going through her head. _What does he know? I thought it was a secret. If he knows Gil is Teufel’s son, others might too. They will know I had a reason to kill him._

“Oh, you don’t know?” Tarvek said.

He watched her grip the skirts of her dress in distress, trying to think of an answer.

“Well, I’ve heard rumors, of course,” she tried uncertainly.

“Rumors, yes,” Tarvek chuckled. “There are so many. I remember when we were children on Castle Wulfenbach, there would be a new one every week. Obviously, we knew his true origins were probably uninteresting; but we had vivid imaginations and we were bored in the evenings, what can I say. It was always an unlikely story: he was a Heterodyne heir, a descendant of the Storm King, some construct created by the Other, the stolen prince of a hidden underground kingdom, the mysterious son of Petrus Teufel… I made up that last one, actually,” he added with a rueful smile.

She almost choked on her wine.

“You what?”

“Yes, I… Oh,” he said, pretending to come to a terrible realization. “Oh, I do apologize. Of course, your family was involved in… I’m so sorry. I wasn’t the most sensitive person when I was eight. I didn’t think it through at the time. It was a tasteless joke made by a resentful child, and I hope it will not weigh on your mind.”

He made sure his face was appropriately remorseful. Ludivina swallowed with some effort, unable to hide her anguish. Her emotions made it even harder for her to take distance, to consider Tarvek’s motivations and the possibility that she was being lied to. She was on the border of fainting now, wondering what was true, whether she had tried to kill the wrong person. Tarvek took some quiet satisfaction in this little crisis of conscience. Whoever Gil was, he hadn’t even been old enough to walk when Ludivina’s family had died.

Tarvek was far from being a saint, but he’d never murdered anyone for stupid reasons.

“But, but what if someone believed you?” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

“Oh, I hardly think _that_ possible,” Tarvek replied with a shrug. “Everyone knows Teufel had no children.”

“What if he did?”

He smiled at her. That was what she knew, he remembered the documents: a child left behind in Teufel’s lair. Everything else was speculation. There was no direct proof that the baby the Baron had found was Gil.

“That would be interesting news indeed, but that child still couldn’t be Holzfäller. I know because I found out who he is. I can be quite persistent when I’m curious, you know. I even stole a sample and had his blood tested to make sure the information was accurate. The truth is a lot simpler, I assure you.”

“Well,” she said weakly. “I cannot wait to hear it.”

 _I bet you can’t_ , Tarvek thought grimly.

“Holzfäller is the son of a pirate king who was conquered by the Baron in the middle seas. After his defeat, that man was hired to work for the Empire and to this day, he puts his rather _unique_ skills to use at the southern border. At first, Holzfäller was taken to ensure his father’s good behavior. Later, as you know, he turned out to be a Spark. Another reason for the Baron to have an interest in him.”

“A pirate,” Ludivina muttered. “How fascinating.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Tarvek said. “That certainly explains the kind of company he favors.”

He had a pointed look for Gil, on the other side of the room, who was currently in the middle of some lively tale, a glass of gin in his hand. Several young women were giggling behind their fan. The lead singer of the orchestra had draped her arm around his shoulders. The long-suffering sigh Tarvek let out wasn’t faked.

“His mother is still a mystery,” he added. “But the blood test confirmed that he has no Ukrainian or Romanian lineage. While he has ancestors from a wide variety of origins, most of them dubious, he certainly is no parent of Petrus Teufel, Andronicus Valois, or the Heterodyne House. I’m afraid all those exciting speculations are unfounded.”

Ludivina did not answer. She was just staring at him in shock. Tarvek knew she didn’t _want_ to believe him, but she doubted, she doubted so much that her head was hurting with the implications. It was enough for now. He would consolidate that work later. The most important thing for the moment was to prevent her from talking with her… associate. The person she had stared at across the room in her panic, the person she burned to run to at this very minute, Alexandra von Dämmerung.

It would be easy enough to keep them apart, a simple question of timing. It was early in the evening, Alexandra would be dancing for a while. She had, of course, seen Gil make his entrance. She was no doubt on edge, smelling the trap, but she wasn’t enough of a beginner to rush to her accomplice’s side in public. She would behave as she normally did, and try to get a discreet moment alone with Ludivina later in the evening. Tarvek wasn’t going to give her the opportunity.

First, he had to make sure Alexandra was on the dance floor when he left Ludivina’s side. He’d just wait for the beginning of the next waltz. Even Ludivina wasn’t stupid enough to interrupt a dance and attract everyone’s attention in the middle of the ballroom. It would buy him the few minutes he needed.

“Don’t you think we live in a twisted world,” he asked her, “when it is normal for the son of a cut-throat to dine at a Duchess’ table?”

“I suppose so,” she answered tonelessly.

“Look at him: he was raised among Europa’s elite, had the best teachers the Empire could provide, and he still behaves like he spent his life sharing cheap rum with bandits and… women of negotiable affection. He’s a living proof, if we needed any, that birthright should still mean something.”

Ludivina just nodded, utterly distracted. Tarvek took her hand, she started and looked back at him.

“My dear, you are obviously quite shocked. I will not press you further on this pig’s misbehavior, but I will talk to him and make sure he doesn’t dare come near you again.”

“Oh, you mustn’t,” she blurted out, “I assure you it’s not…”

“Yes, it _is_ necessary,” he interrupted, with all the authority of an oblivious jerk. “Do not worry. I shall make sure you are safe from his advances.”

And with those words, he stood up, bowed down, and walked away with an air of determination that was sure to worry Ludivina some more.

There. He was finished with her. She had told him all he needed to know, she believed all he wanted her to believe. This feeble-minded moron was his now, a puppet in his hands, even though she would never know it.

And she would live because of it.

One day, _one day_ , Tarvek would be king, and then he would make all these petty vindictive _fools_ behave nicely, whether they wanted to or not. _He would make them want to_. He would strangle their malice _directly in their mind._ They would all turn into kind, peaceful, productive members of society. He wouldn’t allow them the luxury of even _imagining_ acting otherwise. He would _make_ them love it, they would sing songs about it, about how they couldn’t remember how to act like the vicious self-destructive imbeciles they were before his reign, and they would not know how their king had achieved such a miracle but they would be _ever so grateful_.

Tarvek looked around just in time to see the singer slap Gil and walk away briskly. Gil brushed his painful cheek, bewildered, and Tarvek sneered. Gil attracted girls like pollen attracted bees, but he wasn’t very good at keeping them around for long.

Tarvek took a steadying breath. The scene had snapped him out of his… bad mood.

He had almost slipped into a fugue without noticing. That was bad. He was more tired than he thought.

He couldn’t afford a fugue, not here.

It was easy, when you were a Spark, to forget the difference between human beings and insects. Both had very similar levels of intelligence, although the bugs weren’t quite as annoying and nasty. That tendency was worse the stronger the Spark burned. It made you feel apart, far removed from others. Most humans didn’t feel real to Tarvek. He didn’t see them as people, not truly.

Not treading on them took effort.

Gilgamesh did feel real, though. He always had. He was the most irritating person in existence, but he was… relevant, somehow. Tarvek could fill a novel-length book with the list of Gil’s behaviors he disapproved of; but the thought of invading his mind to correct it, like he had just dreamed to do to Ludivina and the rest of Europe, was not attractive. In fact, it made him feel slightly ill.

Maybe it was just sentimentality talking. Or maybe it should never have been attractive, about anyone.

Tarvek breathed in, breathed out. Not treading on people took effort. But you had to try, if you didn’t want to end up like one of those megalomaniacs who turned their entire city’s population into cheese.

Anyway, not the time for moral dilemmas. He had to find Violetta.

* * *

Gil was never sure why he always did something wrong with women. It just happened. His success rate with them was inversely proportional to the number of words that came out of his mouth. He had done the math. Heroing: yes, dancing: yes, smiling: yes, talking: no. The problem was, if he didn’t talk, they did, and those noblewomen were literally trained to sound stupid. Dukes didn’t like their wives to be cleverer than them. That was setting the bar rather low. After the conversations he’d had so far, Gil felt ready to jump out of the nearest window.

He was not looking forward to marriage.

Anyway, now he had a red cheek and a lot less company. The young ladies had abandoned him, and the men were happy to sneer at him. This was a high society party after all, Gil was practically asking to be snubbed just by being there. Maybe he could find Colette or Seffie until Tarvek was done with…

He felt a slight tug on his sleeve. He turned but saw no one.

“Over there,” Violetta whispered in his ear. From her voice, Gil could locate her, but he still couldn’t see her. He’d have to find out how she did that, it was unnerving.

He looked in the direction she was pulling him towards and saw Tarvek, alone, drinking wine by a window. Oh. Alright, then. Time to scheme.

There was only ever one way Gil approached Tarvek in public, and that was with the explicit purpose to make him run away. It wouldn’t do to change habits now, would it? People might notice. He grabbed a new glass from a tray carried by one of the fifty identical footmen, and went on his way to annoy the hell out of Tarvek Sturmvoraus.

“So, murdered anyone yet?” he asked him, and then threw his arm around his shoulder.

Tarvek tried to push him away, but Gil didn’t let him.

“I haven’t, but I’m considering it now,” Tarvek hissed.

“You know what your problem is? You don’t drink enough. That’s your problem.”

“It’s not everyone’s goal to end the evening drunk in the gutter,” Tarvek retorted.

“At least I’m having fun,” Gil told him with a bright smile.

“For some definitions of fun,” Tarvek said with a pointed look for his left cheek. “Now stop your nonsense for a second and listen, we don’t have time. I need you to dance with my cousin Alexandra.”

Gil narrowed his eyes.

“Alexandra von Dämmerung? Why?”

“Just do as I say. Invite her now. She will say yes. Dance. Flirt with her. As outrageously as possible.”

Gil almost choked on his gin.

“What? But she’s sixteen!”

“That’s only three years younger than you, get over yourself,” Tarvek said drily. “Besides, she tried to kill you.”

Gil paused at that. Alexandra’s lands had never been attacked by Teufel.

“Why?”

He didn’t even know why he was asking that question. She was Tarvek’s cousin. It couldn’t be anything as straightforward as revenge, no, there would be layers upon layers of absurd plotting and secret backstabbing.

“Later,” Tarvek hissed. “We’re in a hurry. She must be kept away from Ludivina. Dance. Flirt. Be a swine. I need her mother to go all pale and send her home early. You know the drill.”

“I ‘know the drill’ of being a swine with an underage girl? _You’re_ the swine,” Gil seethed at him.

 “Don’t worry for your reputation, it can’t sink any lower than it already has. Now do as I say or Ludivina dies tonight. Your choice.”

Tarvek slipped from under his arm and pushed him away. Gil grounded his teeth. He really felt like punching his haughty face, but there was such a thing as bad timing. The waltz would end soon. If Alexandra was the evil mastermind, then Tarvek was right, Ludivina had become a liability and her life was at stake.

Well. Off to invite the girl to dance, then. It was an evil plan, but it was a good one, as always with Tarvek’s plans. He probably wouldn’t have to do anything too bad if he just needed to scandalize the Countess von Dämmerung. Gil scandalized countesses on a weekly basis, and most of the time he wasn’t even trying.

He waited for Alexandra’s partner to return her to the edge of the dance floor. There she was, her red hair held into the kind of elaborate hairstyle that takes an hour and two maids to tie together, strapped into a dress that was no doubt the latest fad from St Petersburg or whatever. She looked like a doll. Almost all of them did. Dolls on display. _Here, see my daughter, so pretty, don’t you want to marry her, now let us talk about the dowry_ …

Gil could almost hear Tarvek screaming in his head. _You’re not here to save her, you moron. She wants to kill you! Focus!_ He rolled his eyes at his inner Tarvek and approached Alexandra from behind. It couldn’t hurt to surprise her a little.

“Lady Alexandra,” he said.

She turned around and gave him an urban smile without missing a beat, as if nothing could be more normal than being addressed by one’s failed assassination attempt. Oh, she was good.

“Mr. Holzfäller, I believe?”

“Indeed,” he said with his most charming smile, and bowed. “Shall I have the pleasure of dancing with you?”

Her smile sharpened. Tarvek had predicted she would accept the invitation, and Gil could see why. She thought she was given the opportunity of playing him. She enjoyed being the cat toying with the mouse.

“With pleasure,” she said as she took his arm.

He had to fight against the urge to recoil at the touch. Surprised at the strength of his own reaction, Gil made sure to keep control of his composure as he walked her to the dance floor. He had dealt with more than his share of predators in the past. He had never felt this before, this knot of nausea inside. Then again, none of them had ever come so close to turning him into jelly than this obnoxious teenager.

The music started, they fell into step. Within the first few beats, Alexandra inched closer to Gil, her hand holding tight on his shoulder. She was trying to make him feel trapped.

“How have you been, Mr. Holzfäller? We haven’t seen much of you this last week.”

Gil felt something cold and hard settle in his stomach. The past week had been excruciating levels of unpleasant. He looked at her, with her pretty dress and her confidence, this almost child who had reduced him to a whimpering, helpless lump. She thought he was her prey. Perhaps she was concerned about her plan going wrong, but she didn’t think it was beyond her to rectify it. Just a rat trying to escape its cage, nothing to worry about.

He smiled back, and lowered his hand from her shoulder blade towards the middle of her back to push her even closer. She wasn’t very tall, it was easy to tower over her.

“I have been rather busy. I wonder how you noticed, I didn’t realize we were so close acquaintances?”

“Perhaps I have taken an interest in you,” she said coyly.

She already knew he knew. And she wouldn’t even bother denying it. She was enjoying this, sure in the knowledge that he had no proof, that he could not call her out, that he had to listen to her taunts and smile back. This wasn’t how Gil liked to battle. He’d have taken a duel with a crazy pirate queen any day rather than having to exchange pleasantries in a ballroom. This was Tarvek’s battlefield.

But as a matter of fact, Tarvek had already told him how to handle that one.

Gil’s smile brightened, showing the edge of his teeth, and he pressed closer, much too close, to whisper in her ear.

“Well, if you were trying to get my attention, it definitely worked. _Congratulations_ , my lady.”

“That is rather forward, Mr. Holzfäller,” she mused.

“Oh, I do know how to be forward.”

He made her spin on the next beat, then caught her, his hand now definitely at a most inappropriate waist level and their bodies touching.

“And it’s Gilgamesh.”

“Are we already on first name basis?”

He chuckled, and whispered in her ear again.

“Is poison adequate, but first names too much a liberty? I never quite get the subtleties of etiquette, I’m afraid.”

She laughed quietly.

“You are entertaining, Mr. Holzfäller. Alas, first names must wait until we are much more intimate friends. And that, I’m afraid, is not to be.”

“How heartbreaking. Why not?”

He sent her spinning again, the fabric of her expensive dress swirling around her. She was an excellent dancer. She followed his lead as effortlessly as if she could read his mind.

“Because your mother would disapprove? Or can you foresee that time will be too short?”

She came back against him, her hand around his neck, her nails almost digging in.

“The latter I’m afraid,” she whispered.

“Are you sure, my lady?”

He led her on a turn that brought her in direct line of sight of the Countess von Dämmerung. Her eyes were riveted to her daughter and she looked like she was considering who she was going to murder first. Alexandra looked back at Gil, her smile frozen on her face. He felt the knot inside him loosen. He had won that round. Tarvek had calculated it perfectly. She had forgotten herself. She was so busy playing with her kill that she had forgotten where she was.

The ballroom.

No place was as unforgiving as a ballroom, when it came to breach of etiquette.

“Is that your plan?” she said, her tone sharper. “To hide behind my mother? I wish you luck with that.”

“I’m not the one who needs to hide, Lady Alexandra.”

With that, the music ended, and they stopped. He offered his arm to walk her back to her seat. She slapped him in answer – her only option now, to make her distaste for him obvious to the entire room. Gil laughed. He probably looked like a lunatic, giggling like that, but it was freeing.

Ten minutes later, Alexandra was leaving the party with her mother. Before she left the room, she looked one last time in Gil's direction. Her smile was a promise of pain and misery.

Gil smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Katzedecimal who has an eye out for stray typos ^^


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It is necessary for a prince wishing to hold his own to know how to do wrong, and to make use of it or not according to necessity."  
> \- Niccolò Machiavelli

They went home at separate times and on separate ways; Tarvek on his own and Gil with Violetta, shadowing him quietly. But no one tried to follow them. Gil pushed his way through the door and went to collapse on the sofa with a sigh of relief. He was still tiring quickly.

He closed his eyes for a second. He could easily fall asleep right there. In fact, he probably ought to.

“How many glasses did you have?” Tarvek’s voice asked. The question wasn’t unexpected, but the tone was. Tarvek wasn’t playing his usual _‘let’s be loudly outraged by Holzfäller’_ game. He was angry in a quiet, restrained way.

“Not that many,” Gil said. That sure had sounded less defensive in his head.

“Three gins, a cup of champagne and one glass of white wine. Tell me, did I fail to mention that you’ve been poisoned recently? Or is it your medical opinion that a metabolism still overloaded with the products of trycline oxydation should be washed in alcohol?”

Gil’s eyes snapped open. His glare was lost on Tarvek, who was looking out of the window, his back to him.

“You told Violetta to count my drinks?”

“I didn’t have to,” Tarvek spat, “I could do it from across the room. You were hardly discreet.”

“You _told_ me not to be discreet!”

Tarvek turned around, his coat flowing around him.

“I didn’t ask you to _get drunk_! What part of _be on your goddamn guard_ did you not understand? Do you have any idea – Alexandra isn’t the average little ballroom viper, she’s _family_. What did you do to make her turn on you?”

“I don’t have a clue, I barely know her!”

“Don’t lie to me,” Tarvek hissed between his teeth. “She’s taking stupid amounts of risks with this little stunt, she wouldn’t do that without a reason! She doesn’t care about Teufel, and she’s just using Ludivina. What does she want?”

“I don’t know!”

“Did she sleep with you?”

 “What? Of course not! She’s sixt…”

“Sixteen, yes, I know. Does she _want_ to sleep with you?”

Gil stared at Tarvek in disbelief. What on Earth was wrong with him?

“If she does, she has a really weird way to make advances. I’m pretty sure the girl is supposed to make eyes at the boy before she moves on to hiring assassins. Why would you think this is about sex?”

“Because it’s you,” Tarvek said. “What else is it going to be about? Absinthe?”

It shouldn’t have hurt. Gil had worked hard to make Tarvek think nothing of him. He should have felt some pride, even, about manipulating the little snake so well. There was no reason to feel hurt, unless Gil was a moron who had learned _nothing at all_.

He leaned back against his seat, forcing his tensed body into a relaxed position, conjuring a taunting smile.

“Alexandra never gave me a second glance before tonight, and you know that, because you notice everything. I didn’t think you’d feel this stuck trying to think of reasons to murder me. I’m almost flattered.”

“She sure gave you a second glance today,” Tarvek said, his tone dripping acid. “It was quite a scene.”

“Once again, you _told_ me to make it a scene, you insufferable prick. It was the whole point.” Gil clenched his hand, resisting the urge to punch some logic into the idiot’s skull.

Tarvek scoffed. “I had to play to your strengths.” Gil looked up at Tarvek, with his fashionable clothes and his derisive smile, the very picture of superiority and despise. Gil hated that Tarvek controlled the conversation, made him so angry for no good reason, controlled _him_.  He stood up, and he wasn’t sure what he was doing, expect that he needed to break Tarvek’s composure, grab the reins from his hands somehow.

“You got what you asked for, what the hell are you whining about?” he said. He walked closer to Tarvek, his shoulders squared. Gil could look intimidating with both arms tied behind his back, but all he got from Tarvek was a cool stare. The weasel wasn’t in the mood to cower tonight.

Fine.

Gil took another step.

“You’re just angry to see people enjoying themselves,” he said. He closed the distance between them, stopping a few centimeters from Tarvek, who was refusing to back off. “You hate your life, so you want everybody else to be as miserable as you are.” He slipped his left hand on Tarvek’s hip, his right on his shoulder.

Tarvek took in a sharp breath. “What are you…”

Gil pushed him against the wall, their bodies close together, and whispered against Tarvek’s neck. “Try to have fun once in your life.” He wasn’t sure what he had expected. Some indignant squeaking? A punch in the nose? A blade at the throat?

“Get off me,” Tarvek said, his voice strangled. His pulse was spiking up – not in fear, he had not moved in defence. He was completely still.

Gil took a step back in shock. Tarvek’s cheeks were flushed; his pupils dilating; his breathing shallow. Gil looked at him, taking in all the symptoms. His inner doctor checked all the check boxes, ran a few differential diagnoses, and handed him the conclusion. He took another step back. It was ridiculous, there was no _way_ …

He stared at Tarvek, who looked away, blushing and mortified.

Gil breathed in, tried to say something, but couldn’t.

He had found out within a day of Tarvek’s arrival that he could unsettle him by taking off his shirt, or hanging around a pretty woman. He had used that knowledge shamelessly for _months_. He’d tried to be distasteful to Tarvek, and Tarvek acted disgusted, but kept gravitating to Gil, the clubs he belonged to, the labs he attended. Tarvek had saved his life, had gone to great lengths to keep him safe, had told him how his sister died, given private information for no logical reason. And the dancing, all the excuses to touch, all the weird little things that Gil couldn’t explain, because his mind wouldn’t dare go there, wouldn’t let him look at the answer.

It was insane, but it made sense.

Tarvek opened a cabinet, grabbed a bottle of liquor and poured himself a glass. He gulped it down. No trace of his usual detachment and grace.

“I’m sorry,” Gil said. “I didn’t… I just… I just wanted…”

“…to embarrass me, yes, I know,” Tarvek said tonelessly, eyes on his glass. “Good job on that one. It worked splendidly, well done.”

Gil felt like he’d just stabbed his partner during fencing practice. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He hadn’t meant to draw blood.

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, I think you understand quite enough,” Tarvek said. He set down his glass, one of his hands reaching in one of his inside pockets.

“But you, I mean, you can’t even stand me. Why would you…?” Gil asked. He couldn’t even begin to list all the reasons why someone like Tarvek could never want someone like him. That was the reason Gil had broken with him in the first place, all those years ago. Because someone like Tarvek could never have looked at Gil and seen anything else but a tool.

Tarvek had a bitter smile. He still wasn’t looking at Gil.

“Sorry to disappoint, I’m not planning to entertain you further.” He took a small vial out of his coat and drank its contents. Gil narrowed his eyes. He almost asked, but he wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted.

“How long have you…”

“I said no,” Tarvek retorted. “We are not discussing this.” He was already slipping his mask back into place, regaining composure, forcefully slowing his breathing down. It was almost like watching him turn into stone.

“We need to,” Gil said. He didn’t even know how, his mind was scrambling for words, he felt like a wall had just dropped on him.

“No we don’t. It’s not relevant.”

“Not relevant,” Gil choked out. “How is it not relevant?” As far as he was concerned, it was the most relevant piece of information since the words “ _Gilgamesh, I’m your father_ ” had been thrown at him. Because if Tarvek cared, if he…

“Someone is still trying to kill you, don’t you think it’s more important than playing mind games with me?”

“I am not – ”

“You still don’t get it, do you? Alexandra – ”

“Alexandra is a freaking psychopath, yes!” Gil yelled. “Like practically everyone in your family, so what? You people pull knives all the time and it never worries you that much, you’re just trying to avoid –“

“THIS IS DIFFERENT!” Tarvek yelled back. “Don’t you understand, we’re in Paris, on Voltaire’s turf, there are _rules_ about Paris! There are only two possibilities. One, Alexandra has no permission for trying to kill you, which means she is absolutely desperate to cover her tracks, which is very bad for us. Or two, she has permission, or even orders, which is extremely bad for us. The only way you’re staying alive is by finding out which it is.”

Gil shook his head. Sturmvoraus and his goddamn family were giving him a headache. “What do you mean, permission? Whose permission? What rules?”

An indicator light blinked on one of the wall panels. They both stared at it. Gil sighed. It was impossible to have a coherent conversation about anything, in here.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Somebody’s trying to kill us.”

“One of the window traps went off,” Tarvek muttered. “Stay here.”

Gil watched him disappear through the door. ‘Stay here’? Like hell he was.

* * *

One thing Tarvek had learned during his training: never draw unless you mean it. Once you’ve pulled a dagger on a Smoke Knight, the confrontation ends very quickly in one of two ways. He dies, or you do. Because if you miss him, he won’t miss you.

Of course, most people would consider those were the only two ways _any_ confrontation with a Smoke Knight would go. They were mostly right. But there were exceptions. Tarvek opened the living room’s door. He took in the open window and Violetta lying below it – left arm injured, breathing, conscious.

He did not draw.

He walked in and let the visitor close in from behind to press a knife against his carotid artery. The cold metal on his throat made Tarvek oddly cheerful. This was fine. He was going to either win or die. Both outcomes were an improvement over that ridiculous conversation he was having a moment ago.

“Good evening, Raphael,” he said in his most urbane party tone. He couldn’t see the Smoke Knight’s face, but there were only so many options, given the fact that Violetta was lying injured next to a disabled window trap. Tarvek quickly reviewed her physical state. Bleeding – not heavily –,  short of breath, lips blue, obviously poisoned but she could move enough to fish a vial from her satchel and swallow its contents. She blinked at him twice. She wasn’t dying. Good girl.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” Raphael answered behind him. You had to give him that, the boy would cut your throat, but he wasn’t rude while doing it. Tarvek approved of that. He liked people who had standards.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of such a late visit?” he asked. The knife twitched slightly on his skin. Perhaps Tarvek sounded a little too cheerful. The lad was unnerved.

“It’s very simple, sir. Just tell me where he is. I take him off your hands and I’m out of here, no harm done.”

“Oh,” Tarvek said. “How very generous of you. And who would be this person you want to ‘take off my hands’?”

“Let’s not pretend we’re idiots, sir,” Raphael answered sharply. “We both know better. Where is he?”

“I would _never_ want to insult your intelligence,” Tarvek assured him. “Fine then, let us do this the easy way. It will save us time so we can all go to bed. Lower your weapon. Go to your mistress. Tell her I’m willing to overlook her rudeness, as long as she starts packing _now_ and leaves for her family’s estate with the first train tomorrow morning. We will settle the matter quietly, without any unpleasantness.”

“That’s a kind offer, sir,” Raphael replied, unfazed. “But I’m afraid if there is unpleasantness, it will involve your carotid artery.”

“Dear me, was that a threat?” Tarvek asked brightly. “Violetta, what do you think? I rather think it sounded like a threat.”

The knife pressed a little more at his throat. “Yes. It is.”

 _Never draw unless you mean it_ , Tarvek thought, and chuckled. “Cutting a throat is easy, my boy. The hard part is to get away with it, hence all the tiresome training. I know you can cut my throat. Do you think you can get away with it?”

“I’m sure I’ll come up with something,” the Smoke Knight hissed.

“I’m sorry, are we pretending we’re idiots again?” Tarvek asked. “Or are you saying that because you are, in fact, a moron? If I disappear, questions will be asked. You know who will ask them. And you know they will be answered, because the questions she asks are always answered. Within a week, she’ll have your head on a silver plate for tea, next to Alexandra’s.”

“You’re very sure she wants you alive,” Raphael said. Tarvek was giving him points for trying, but really he was years too early to play in that particular playground.

“I’m very sure she wants all games played by her rules. She won’t be angry because you killed me. She’ll be angry because you killed me for stupid reasons. Your Lady is breaking the rules, Raphael. She doesn’t have permission. She needs to keep her little schemes quiet, now. You really think you’ll manage that by murdering _me_?”

Slowly, Tarvek turned around to stare at Alexandra’s Smoke Knight. Raphael stepped back.

“You’re not actually that stupid,” Tarvek said, walking forward, backing Raphael against the wall little by little. “You were hoping you could flourish your little knife, sound very deadly, and get what you wanted. And then what, Raphael? How do you keep me from telling the story at dinner? Another empty threat? A piece of blackmail? You know, I’m not sure your mistress has thought this through. I expect she was quite angry when she sent you.”

Raphael now had his shoulders to the wall and the look of a cornered wolf. Tarvek stopped. No need to make the lad fear for his life, he would still kill if given no choice.

“Go to your mistress,” Tarvek told him. “Tell her to pack. Or I shall have both your skins before lunch.”

Raphael pressed his lips together, then dashed for the window.

It was only at the last minute that Tarvek noticed the movement, and he had an instant of panic – _what was this idiot doing there he was supposed to wait why no no no_ – then Raphael screamed and landed back inside, knocked out.

Tarvek blinked.

Gil jumped inside. He’d just knocked down a Smoke Knight – this one was young, but still. Tarvek didn’t know if he was impressed, offended or annoyed.

“What is wrong with you?” Gil yelled at him. Tarvek blinked again.

“What?”

“Why did you just enter the room like that – I happen to know for a _fact_ that you have half a dozen hidden blades on you, I won’t even bother to count the poisoned needles, how could you let him get the jump on you like that! It’s insane!”

“I happen to prefer finesse,” Tarvek said with a shrug, unsure why Gil would be so angry over a detail of style. “I had the situation under control, thank you very much. There was no need for any intervention.”

He gestured to the unconscious Raphael, one eyebrow raised to convey exactly what he thought of Gil’s level of subtlety.

“Under control, right,” Gil said, arms crossed. “Don’t play the idiot with me, you don’t believe for a minute that Alexandra is going to give up and leave just because you scared off her assassin. You were just trying to buy some time…” he trailed off as he took a better look at Raphael. “Wait a minute. How old is this guy?”

“He’ll turn sixteen this autumn, why?” Tarvek said, confused. Gil stared at him in disbelief.

“What is _wrong_ with you people?”

 “Do you want an exhaustive list?” Tarvek asked, fishing a needle from one of his hidden pockets. “I don’t think we have that kind of time. Here, inject him with that.”

Gil frowned. “Is that going to kill him?”

“Don’t be insulting,” Tarvek snapped. “If I wanted him dead, he would be. It’s a sedative, it’ll keep him out of the way for a while. But be careful, he’ll knock it off under twenty minutes. Tie him up, and do _not_ take your eyes off him. You’ll find the rope in the cupboard.”

“Rope in the cupboard,” Gil said. “Sure. Do you always tie people up on weekends or is that just for the really fun parties?”

“I know your mind never really leaves the gutter, but give me a break, will you?” Tarvek said. “I’ve got to take a look at the lackwit over there.”

He turned to Violetta. She was breathing more easily, but her lips were still blue. It took half a minute of mixing blood samples and chemicals and examining fingernails to find out what Raphael had injected her with. It was a nasty paralytic, which she had counteracted with a generic antidote, but knowing the exact ingredients allowed Tarvek to cook up a more efficient cure. He mixed some Blue Geresina with Saradith Tincture and gave it to her.

“How is she?” Gil asked.

Tarvek looked up at him. Raphael was lying at his feet, very efficiently hog-tied. Despite his sarcasm about ropes, Gil was clearly not new to the arts of tying people up.

“She’ll be fine, she just needs to sleep it off for a few hours,” Tarvek told him. “Good thing he missed the heart when he stabbed her, because she’d have needed a new one.”

Saying the words out loud released an odd pressure inside him, a weight he hadn’t felt until now. Tarvek knew what anger felt like, he was almost always angry; but usually it was controlled, directed, not suffocating. He stayed still for a minute, holding himself through the urge to kill somebody. He tried to remember music, emptiness, and cold, white snow. Tried to think of nothing, of calm and quiet. Heavens, he really needed to sleep, he was losing it, but he’d feel so much better if only he could bleed one of those stupid, nasty little murderers, at least. His father he couldn’t touch, but surely he was allowed those pathetic nitwits. Anevka did it all the time and no one minded much. Except Violetta. Violetta did mind.

Violetta always minded.

Oh, yes. That reminded him.

Tarvek turned back to Violetta and, very deliberately, slapped her hard. She cried out in pain and surprise.

“What the hell, Sturmvoraus!” Gil yelled, pulling him back. “What is that about?”

“Why don’t you ask her?” Tarvek said, cold and low. “Why don’t you ask her why she disabled the window trap?”

Gil looked at Violetta, who squirmed uneasily.

“He was caught in it! It was going to kill him!” she said.

“Yes,” Tarvek told her. “I do believe that was the point.”

 “But it’s _Raphael_!”

“So what!” Tarvek shouted. He remembered himself and lowered his voice. “So what? You know him? You like him? You trained with him? I notice it didn’t keep _him_ from stabbing you.”

Violetta bit her lower lip. She looked at Raphael, tied on the ground. “Yeah, but he didn’t try _that_ hard.”

If it hadn’t been for Gil’s hand firmly holding his arm, Tarvek would have slapped her again.

“When are you going to learn?” he yelled at her. “You useless, stupid, incompetent fool! His poison was going to suffocate you to death, is that your idea of ‘nice’? Did you think he was here to have a tea party? Saving his worthless life was not your job! Finishing him off was your job!”

Gil shoved him hard against the wall, knocking the wind out of him. “That’s enough! Violetta needs to rest, and _you_ need to cool down! Get out of here!”

Tarvek couldn’t breathe well enough to make a proper reply, but he stared in defiance until Gil grabbed him by the collar, opened the door, and bodily threw him out of the room. A minute later, Gil followed with an unconscious tied-up Raphael on his shoulder. He hurled the Smoke Knight at Tarvek, who almost fell catching him.

“You keep an eye on him. I’m making coffee. Don’t kill him!”

When Tarvek found his breath back, his anger had retreated, contained and controlled again. Coffee. It was two in the morning, Tarvek hadn’t slept in a week, he’d almost been killed and Gil knew he was in love with him. And they were going to have coffee. Right. Why the hell not.

Tarvek carried Raphael to his room and checked his pulse while Gil started opening cupboards and moving dishes in the kitchen. Tarvek had just decided it was time to inject another dose of sedatives when Gil arrived with a tray of fresh coffee.

“Don’t kill him,” he said again while putting down the cups on the table.

“I will not,” Tarvek said, pushing on the needle. “He’s more useful alive. And it’s such a pain to get rid of a body discreetly in this city, anyway.”

The expression on Gil’s face told him that hadn’t been the correct answer. But when did Tarvek ever have the correct answer with Gil?

“Oh please.”

“What?” Tarvek asked.

“You. Waltzing in that room, perfectly aware an assassin is waiting for you, with _empty_ hands. You don’t let people put blades on your throat because getting rid of their body would be annoying. Why the hell did you _do_ that? I don’t even know how you have the nerve to rant at your cousin after that stunt.”

Tarvek shrugged. “I had a plan.”

“That wasn’t a plan,” Gil said, stirring his coffee. “That was a gamble.”

“Life is a gamble.”

Gil narrowed his eyes at him. “Don’t try being rhetorical on me, you know it doesn’t work.”

Tarvek sighed. “Nothing works on you,” he said. “That’s why being near you is so exhausting.”

“Thank you,” Gil said with a rueful smile. Tarvek hated it when Gil smiled at him. It made him want to see it again so badly it hurt, and it was a stupid, hopeless desire that led to nothing but heartache.

“Are we please going to focus on an actually important question?” he said, irritated.

“Such as?”

“How did Alexandra find out you were here, in my apartment? Violetta said you weren’t followed.”

“We weren’t,” Gil said, sounding quite sure of himself. “Maybe she saw us talking to each other in the ballroom.”

“I’m not an amateur,” Tarvek retorted. “We weren’t visible from the dance floor.”

“But she saw you talk to Ludivina.”

“And a dozen other people too,” Tarvek said, rubbing his forehead in frustration. “There was nothing unusual about it, it shouldn’t have spooked her unless she knew something else. You and I are enemies, it’s public knowledge! It makes no sense to just assume we’re working together.”

“It might if she heard what we were up to on Castle Wulfenbach.”

Tarvek shook his head. “Where would she have heard about that? I never told any of them about you, not even Violetta. She wouldn’t have found out about that unless she was looking for it, and why would she? You have a thousand friends who are more likely to hide you than a man who helped you steal hats at school ten years ago.”

Gil sighed and looked away. He tapped his spoon against the rim of his cup.

“Look. You… have feelings for me.”

Tarvek kept his face carefully blank. “That is irrelevant.”

“So you keep saying,” Gil said with an edge to his voice. “But what if she picked up on it somehow? What if you’ve always been her real target?”

Tarvek stilled. “You think she killed you because of me.”

“ _Tried_ to,” Gil said frowning. “I’m not actually dead, thank you. But yeah. She might have been trying to hurt you.”

Tarvek shook his head. “Somebody else maybe, but not Alexandra. We don’t hurt people, we go for the throat. Why hurt me, what does it accomplish?”

“You get angry enough, maybe you do something stupid. Try to get revenge, make a mess of it, damage your reputation…”

Tarvek scoffed. “How very productive. I’m not as stupid as –“

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Of course. He was such an idiot, he should have seen it earlier, it was obvious.

“Tarvek?”

Tarvek looked at Gil. “It’s not me she’s after. It’s not you either. You were just bait.”

“What? Then who…” Tarvek watched Gil’s eyes narrow in understanding. “Black fire and slag. Ludivina.”

Tarvek nodded and sipped at his coffee. “We assumed she wasn’t important, that she was a scapegoat, but it was the other way around. Alexandra doesn’t really care about you. She just wants Ludivina to take the fall for your murder. She gave her a motive, and access to assassins who conveniently left an easy trail to follow. Ludivina was supposed to kill you and get caught. She would have been sentenced to death, and Alexandra would never have dirtied her own hands at all.”

“Nasty,” Gil said. “But why does she want Ludivina dead? She’s not a political player, she’s not rich, at least not by Alexandra’s standards…”

And that was where Gil would always lose. He didn’t understand these things, not truly. You couldn’t understand it from the outside. You had to be part of the insanity. “She’s engaged,” Tarvek told him. “To a Russian Count, fifth in line for the throne of one of the Polar Lords.”

Gil went quiet. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Are you saying I was almost killed because some socialite wanted to steal another socialite’s fiancé? Couldn’t she have done it the normal way? I don’t know, spreading gossip or whatever?”

Tarvek shrugged. “An engagement is a hard thing to break among our kind of people. It’s a contract between families; an alliance of lands, money and power. You can make lifelong enemies if you get caught trying to ruin one. I’m sure she thought she was very clever.”

Gil rubbed his forehead, looking like he was fighting a headache. “Fine. We still don’t know how she knew I’d be here, but I guess that’s not the most important issue right now. How do we deal with her?”

“Well, the easiest way would be to just talk to the Master…” Tarvek started. Gil scowled at him.

“Yes, I know, and you know I don’t want to make this official, can we please skip the part where you’re being irritating just to spite me.”

Tarvek smirked at him. He felt somewhat better knowing he still had the ability to needle Gil. “Alexandra would be well advised to take the deal I offered Raphael and leave it at that,” he added.

“But she won’t do that.”

“No. So I’m going to talk to her father instead.”

Gil stared at Tarvek as if he’d just gone insane. “You’re going to what?”

Tarvek allowed himself a thin smile. “Alexandra wouldn’t have sent Raphael, who’s technically still in training, if she’d had access to better resources. She’s alone in this. She doesn’t have permission.”

Now Gil had his forehead in both hands. “Permission. Right. You said there are rules. What in the name of the Lightning are you even talking about?”

“My family is known to be troublesome,” Tarvek said.

“The understatement of the century,” Gil said, sounding exhausted. Tarvek ignored him.

“The Master doesn’t like trouble in his city, so my grandmother made a deal with him. We are all allowed to spend the season in Paris, but when we’re within walls, trouble has to be kept to a minimum. Within Parisian standards, obviously. He doesn’t care much if we backstab each other, and occasionally setting things on fire is somewhat tolerated. But if we’re being a serious threat to the peace, we are banned. The prospect of no longer being able to enjoy Parisian macarons is a dreadful one to Grandmother, so killing people in Paris is forbidden, unless it’s _her_ plot, of course. She enforces this by personally sending the head of overzealous family members to the Awful Tower. In exchange, she can enjoy the spring balls as much as she wishes.”

“So she’ll be mad at Alexandra for trying to kill me? Is that what you mean?” Gil asked, dubious.

“Murdering the Master’s pet student, using the Master himself to get rid of a rival,” Tarvek said tonelessly. “He’d be furious. Alexandra also picked you for that, because Voltaire likes you, because he’d tear to pieces anybody who did this to you. All I’d need would be ten minutes with Grandmother to explain the situation, and this stupid girl would be spare parts on the Black Market the next day. Of course that means she has to silence me. I’m about as inconvenient to her dead than alive, it must be very vexing.”

“Then her only viable option is to destroy your credibility by telling her own version of the story first. Not easy, you _are_ good, but playable,” Gil said.

Tarvek stared at him. He wouldn’t have expected Gil to come up with this solution. It was a sneaky move, obvious to filthy liars like himself, not so much to the kind of guys who enjoyed defeating catacomb monsters with their bare hands. He made a short nod of acknowledgement.

“Which is why you’re now going to admit that letting this young fellow run back to his mistress was a terribly bad idea,” Gil added with a grin, pointing at Raphael. “Aren’t you glad I snatched him for you?”

Why was the man both so gorgeous and bloody infuriating? Tarvek pressed the ridge of his nose between his fingers. He already knew where this was going.

“No. Holzfäller. No. Absolutely not.”

“Yes,” Gil said cheerfully.

“No. I will not take you with me to the family manor. I will not. Do you have any idea in how much trouble I could get? We’ll both die.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Gil told him, patting him on the back. “I’m not known for doing as I’m told. Think of all the chaos I could create by sneaking in behind your back. Wouldn’t you rather know where I am? Keep an eye on me? Come on, you know it’ll be easier for both of us.”

Who had taught Gilgamesh how to think like that and created this monster? Tarvek was supposed to be the weasel. This was so unfair.

“I hate you,” he told Gil with a sigh. “I hate you so much.”

“Yes, I know,” Gil said, almost sympathetic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note 1: I know, a lot happens in this chapter which isn't discussed as much as it should. They'll talk eventually, they just need to make sure they're not dying first ^^
> 
> Note 2: Iiiiiiik, how did half a year go by. This chapter was pretty hard to write. It's one of the central scenes I imagined when I started this thing and I'm not sure it turned out like I wanted it to, but better post it now than worry about it for another 6 months.
> 
> Once again thanks at Katzedecimal who hunted my mistakes in this chapter!


End file.
